LOVE  AND     :  =  : 

LUCY  :"!::!:::  BY 
MAURICE :  HEWLETT 


r> 


2138627 


LOVE  AND  LUCY 


LOVE  AND  LUCY 

BY 

MAURICE  HEWLETT 

Author  of   "The  Forest  Lovers,' '  "The  Life  and 
Death  of  Richard  Yea  and  Nay,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1916 


Copyright,  1916 

BY  DODO,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY,  INC. 


2138627 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I     ONSLOW  SQUARE i 

II    A  DINNER  PARTY 16 

III  IN  THE  DRAWING-ROOM 31 

IV  AFTER-TALK 41 

V    EROS  STEPS  IN 53 

VI    A  LEAP  OUTWARDS 74 

VII    PATIENCE  AND  PSYCHE 84 

VIII    AGAIN 102 

IX  SUNDRY  ROMANTIC  EPISODES  .     .     .     .112 

X    AT  A  WORLD'S  EDGE 121 

XI    ANTEROS 134 

XII    HARTLEY  THICKET  (i) 148 

XIII  MARTLEY  THICKET  (2) 162 

XIV  THE  GREAT  SCHEME 175 

XV    JAMES 188 

XVI     Amari  Aliquid 196 

XVII    THE  SHIVERING  FIT 209 

XVIII    THE  HARDANGER 227 

XIX    THE  MOON-SPELL 235 

XX  FAIR  WARNING                      .          .     .  247 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXI    THE  DEPARTURE    . 256 

XXII    CATASTROPHE 268 

XXIII  JAMES  AND  JIMMY 280 

XXIV  URQUHART'S  APOLOGY 292 

EPILOGUE:     Quid  Plura  ....?.     .      .  306 


LOVE  AND  LUCY 


LOVE  AND  LUCY 

CHAPTER  I 

ONSLOW   SQUARE 

THIS  is  a  romantic  tale.  So  romantic  is  it 
that  I  shall  be  forced  to  pry  into  the  coy 
recesses  of  the  mind  in  order  to  exhibit  a 
connected,  reasonable  affair,  not  only  of  a  man 
and  his  wife  prosperously  seated  in  the  mean  of 
things,  nel  mezzo  del  cammin  in  space  as  well  as 
time  —  for  the  Macartneys  belonged  to  the  mid- 
dle class,  and  were  well  on  to  the  middle  of  life 
themselves  — ,  but  of  stript,  quivering  and  winged 
souls  tiptoe  within  them,  tiptoe  for  flight  into 
diviner  spaces  than  any  seemly  bodies  can  afford 
them.  As  you  peruse  you  may  find  it  difficult  to 
believe  that  Macartney  himself  —  James  Adol- 
phus,  that  remarkable  solicitor  —  could  have  pos- 
sessed a  quivering,  winged  soul  fit  to  be  stript, 
and  have  hidden  it  so  deep.  But  he  did  though, 
and  the  inference  is  that  everybody  does.  As 
for  the  lady,  that  is  not  so  hard  of  belief.  It 
very  seldom  is  —  with  women.  They  sit  so 


2  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

much  at  windows,  that  pretty  soon  their  eyes  be- 
come windows  themselves  —  out  of  which  the 
soul  looks  darkling,  but  preening;  out  of  which 
it  sometimes  launches  itself  into  the  deep,  wooed 
thereto  or  not  by  aubade  or  serena.  But  a  man, 
with  his  vanity  haunting  him,  pulls  the  blinds 
down  or  shuts  the  shutters,  to  have  it  decently  to 
himself,  and  his  looking-glass;  and  you  are  not 
to  know  what  storm  is  enacting  deeply  within. 
Finally,  I  wish  once  for  all  to  protest  against  the 
fallacy  that  piracy,  brigandage,  pearl-fishery  and 
marooning  are  confined  to  the  wilder  parts  of 
the  habitable  globe.  Never  was  a  greater,  if 
more  amiable,  delusion  fostered  (to  serve  his 
simplicity)  by  Lord  Byron  and  others.  Because 
a  man  wears  trousers,  shall  there  be  no  more 
cakes  and  ale?  Because  a  woman  subscribes  to 
the  London  Institution,  desires  the  suffrage,  or 
presides  at  a  Committee,  does  the  bocca  badata 
perde  ventura?  Believe  me,  no.  There  are  at 
least  two  persons  in  each  of  us,  one  at  least  of 
which  can  course  the  starry  spaces  and  inhabit 
where  the  other  could  hardly  breathe  for  ten 
minutes.  Such  is  my  own  experience,  and  such 
was  the  experience  of  the  Macartney  pair  —  and 
now  I  have  done  with  exordial  matter. 


ONSLOW  SQUARE  3 

The  Macartneys  had  a  dinner-party  on  the 
twelfth  of  January.  There  were  to  be  twelve 
people  at  it,  in  spite  of  the  promised  assistance 
of  Lancelot  at  dessert,  which  Lucy  comforted 
herself  by  deciding  would  only  make  twelve  and 
a  half,  not  thirteen.  She  told  that  to  her  hus- 
band, who  fixed  more  firmly  his  eyeglass,  and 
grunted,  "I'm  not  superstitious,  myself."  He 
may  not  have  been,  but  certainly,  Lucy  told 
herself,  he  wasn't  very  good  at  little  jokes. 
Lancelot,  on  the  other  hand,  was  very  good  at 
them.  "Twelve  and  a  half!"  he  said,  lifting 
one  eyebrow,  just  like  his  father.  "  Why,  I'm 
twelve  and  a  half  myself!"  Then  he  pro- 
pounded his  little  joke.  "  I  say,  Mamma,  on  the 
twelve  and  halfth  of  January  —  because  the 
evening  is  exactly  half  the  day  —  twelve  and  a 
half  people  have  a  dinner-party,  and  one  of  them 
is  twelve  and  a  half.  Isn't  that  neat?  " 

Lucy  encouraged  her  beloved.  "  It's  very  neat 
indeed,"  she  said,  and  her  grey  eyes  glowed,  or 
seemed  to  glow. 

"  It's  what  we  call  an  omen  at  school,"  said 
Lancelot.  "  It  means  —  oh,  well,  it  means  lots 
of  things,  like  you're  bound  to  have  it,  and  it's 
bound  to  be  a  frightful  success,  or  an  utter  failure, 


4  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

or  something  of  that  kind."  He  thought  about  it. 
Developments  crowded  upon  him.  "  I  say, 
Mamma  — "  all  this  was  at  breakfast,  Macartney 
shrouding  himself  in  the  Morning  Post: 

"Yes,  Lancelot?" 

"  It  would  be  awfully  good,  awfully  ingenious 
and  all  that,  if  one  of  the  people  was  twice  twelve 
and  a  half." 

She  agreed.  "  Yes,  I  should  like  that.  Very 
likely  one  of  them  is." 

Lancelot  looked  extremely  serious.  "  Not  Mr. 
Urquhart?  "  he  said. 

"  No,"  said  Lucy,  "  I  am  sure  Mr.  Urquhart  is 
older  than  that.  But  there's  Margery  Dacre. 
She  might  do." 

Lancelot  had  his  own  ideas  as  to  whether 
women  counted  or  not,  in  omens,  but  was  too  polite 
to  express  them. 

"Is  she  twenty-five,  do  you  think?  She's 
rather  thin."  Lucy  exploded,  and  had  to  kiss  the 
unconscious  humourist.  "  Do  you  think  we  grow 
fatter  as  we  grow  older?  Then  you  must  think 
me  immense,  because  I'm  much  more  than  twenty- 
five,"  she  said. 

Here  was  a  vital  matter.  It  is  impossible  to  do 
justice  to  Lancelot's  seriousness,  on  the  edge  of 


ONSLOW  SQUARE  5 

truth.  "How  much  more  are  you,  really?"  he 
asked  her,  trembling  for  the  answer. 

She  looked  heavenly  pretty,  with  her  drawn- 
back  head  and  merry  eyes.  She  was  a  dark- 
haired  woman  with  a  tender  smile;  but  her  eyes 
were  her  strong  feature  —  of  an  intensely  blue- 
grey  iris,  ringed  with  black.  Poising  to  tantalise 
him,  adoring  the  fun  of  it,  suddenly  she  melted, 
leaned  until  her  cheek  touched  his,  and  whispered 
the  dreadful  truth  — "  Thirty-one" 

I  wish  I  could  do  justice  to  his  struggle,  polite- 
ness tussling  with  pity  for  a  fall,  but  tripping  it  up, 
and  rising  to  the  proper  lightness  of  touch.  "  Are 
you  really  thirty-one?  Oh,  well,  that's  nothing." 
It  was  gallantly  done.  She  kissed  him  again,  and 
Lancelot  changed  the  subject. 

"  There's  Mr.  Lingen,  isn't  there  ?  "  he  asked, 
adding,  "  He's  always  here." 

"  Much  more  than  twenty-five,"  said  his  mother, 
very  much  aware  of  Mr.  Lingen's  many  appear- 
ances in  Onslow  Square.  She  made  one  more  at- 
tempt at  her  husband,  wishing,  as  she  always  did 
wish,  to  draw  him  into  the  company.  It  was  not 
too  successful.  "Lingen?  Oh,  a  stripling,"  he 
said  lightly  and  rustled  the  Morning  Post  like  an 
aspen  tree. 


6  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

"  Father  always  talks  as  if  he  was  a  hundred 
himself,"  said  Lancelot,  who  was  not  afraid  of 
him.  He  had  to  be  content  with  Miss  Dacre  after 
all.  The  others  —  the  Judge  and  Lady  Bliss, 
Aunt  Mabel  and  Uncle  Corbet,  the  Worthingtons, 
were  out  of  the  question.  As  for  Miss  Bacchus 
—  oh,  Miss  Bacchus  was,  at  least,  five  hundred, 
said  Lancelot,  and  wished  to  add  up  all  the  ages  to 
see  if  they  came  to  a  multiple  of  twelve  and  a 
half. 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Macartney  in  his  leisurely  way 
had  risen  from  the  table,  cigar  in  mouth,  had 
smoothed  his  hair  before  the  glass  on  the  chimney- 
piece,  looked  at  his  boots,  wriggled  his  toes  in 
them  with  gratifying  results,  adjusted  his  coat- 
collar,  collected  his  letters  in  a  heap,  and  left  the 
room.  They  saw  no  more  of  him.  Half  an 
hour  later  the  front  door  shut  upon  him.  He  had 
gone  to  his  office,  or,  as  he  always  said,  Chambers. 

He  was  rather  bleak,  and  knew  it,  reckoning 
it  among  his  social  assets.  Reduced  into  a  sen- 
tence, it  may  be  said  of  Macartney  that  the  Chief 
Good  in  his  philosophy  was  to  be,  and  to  seem, 
successful  without  effort.  What  effort  he  may 
have  made  to  conceal  occasional  strenuous  effort 
is  neither  here  nor  there.  The  point  is  that,  at 


ONSLOW  SQUARE  7 

forty-two,  he  found  himself  solidly  and  really  suc- 
cessful. The  husband  of  a  very  pretty  wife,  the 
father  of  a  delightful  and  healthy  son,  the  best- 
dressed  solicitor  in  London,  and  therefore,  you 
may  fairly  say,  in  the  world,  with  an  earned  income 
of  some  three  or  four  thousand  a  year,  with  money 
in  the  funds,  two  houses,  and  all  the  rest  of  it, 
a  member  of  three  very  old-fashioned,  most  un- 
comfortable and  absurdly  exclusive  clubs  —  if  this 
is  not  success,  what  is?  And  all  got  smoothly, 
without  a  crease  of  the  forehead,  by  means  of  an 
eyeglass,  a  cold  manner  and  an  impassivity  which 
nothing  foreign  or  domestic  had  ever  disturbed. 
He  had  ability  too,  and  great  industry,  but  it  was 
characteristic  of  him  to  reckon  these  as  nothing  in 
the  scales  against  the  eyeglass  and  the  manner. 
They  were  his  by  the  grace  of  God;  but  the  others, 
he  felt,  were  his  own  additions,  and  of  the  best. 
These  sort  of  investments  enabled  a  man  to  sleep; 
they  assured  one  of  completeness  of  effect. 
Nevertheless  he  was  a  much  more  acute  and  vigor- 
ous-minded man  than  he  chose  to  appear. 

He  was  a  solicitor,  it  is  true,  and  had  once  been 
called  an  attorney  by  a  client  in  a  rage;  but  he 
could  afford  to  smile  at  that  because  he  was  quite 
a  peculiar  sort  of  solicitor,  by  no  means  every- 


8  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

body's  money.  Rather,  he  was  a  luxury,  an  ap- 
panage of  the  great.  His  office,  which  he  called 
"  Chambers,"  as  if  it  was  an  old  house  in  the 
country,  was  in  Cork  Street;  his  clients  were  landed 
gentry,  bankers,  peers  and  sons  of  peers.  The 
superior  clergy,  too:  he  handled  the  affairs  of  a 
Bishop  of  Lukesboro',  and  those  of  no  less  than 
three  Deans  and  Chapters.  Tall,  dark  and  tren- 
chant, with  a  strong  nose  and  chin,  and  clouded 
grey  eyes,  a  handsome  man  with  a  fine  air  of  arro- 
gant comfort  on  him,  he  stood  well,  and  you  could 
not  but  see  what  good  clothes  he  wore  —  to  my 
taste,  I  confess,  a  little  too  good.  His  legs  were 
a  feature,  and  great  play  was  made  by  wits  with 
his  trousers.  He  was  said  to  have  two  hundred 
pairs,  and  to  be  aiming  at  three  hundred  and  sixty- 
five.  Certainly  they  had  an  edge,  and  must  have 
been  kept  in  order  like  razors ;  but  the  legend  that 
they  were  stropped  after  every  day's  use  is  absurd. 
They  used  to  say  that  they  would  cut  paper  easily, 
and  every  kind  of  cheese  except  Parmesan. 

He  wore  an  eyeglass,  which,  with  the  wry  smile 
made  necessary  by  its  use,  had  the  marked  effect 
of  intimidating  his  clients  and  driving  them  into 
indiscretions,  admissions  and  intemperate  dis- 
course. Hypnotised  by  the  unknown  terrific  of 


ONSLOW  SQUARE  9 

which  the  glitter  of  the  blank  surface,  the  writhen 
and  antick  smile  were  such  formidable  symbols, 
they  thought  that  he  knew  all,  and  provided  that 
he  should  by  telling  it  him.  To  these  engines  of 
mastery  he  had  added  a  third.  He  practised 
laconics,  and  carried  them  to  the  very  breaking 
point.  He  had  in  his  time  —  I  repeat  the  tale  — 
gone  without  his  breakfast  for  three  days  running 
rather  than  say  that  he  preferred  his  egg  poached. 
His  wife  had  been  preoccupied  at  the  time  —  it 
had  been  just  before  Lancelot  was  born,  barely  a 
year  after  marriage  —  and  had  not  noticed  that  he 
left  cup  and  platter  untouched.  She  was  very 
penitent  afterwards,  as  he  had  intended  she  should 
be.  The  egg  was  poached  —  and  even  so  she  was 
afraid  to  ask  him  when  the  time  was  ripe  to  boil 
it  again.  It  made  her  miserable;  but  he  never 
spoke  of  it.  Of  course  all  that  was  old  history. 
She  was  hardened  by  this  time,  but  still  dreadfully 
conscious  of  his  comforts,  or  possible  discomforts. 
This  was  the  manner  of  the  man  who,  you  may 
say,  had  quizzed,  or  mesmerised,  Lucy  Meade  into 
marriage.  She  had  been  scarcely  eighteen;  I  be- 
lieve that  she  was  just  seventeen  and  a  half  when 
he  presented  himself,  the  second  of  three  pretty, 
dark-haired  and  grey-eyed  girls,  the  slimmest  and, 


io  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

as  I  think,  by  far  the  prettiest.  The  Meades'lived 
at  Drem  House,  which  is  practically  within  Bushey 
Park.  Here  the  girls  saw  much  society,  for  the 
old  Meades  were  hospitable,  and  the  Mother 
Meade,  a  Scotchwoman,  had  a  great  idea  of  estab- 
lishing her  daughters.  The  sons  she  left  to 
Father  Meade  and  his  competent  money-bags. 
Here  then  James  Adolphus  Macartney  presented 
himself,  and  here  sat  smiling  bleakly,  glaring 
through  his  glass,  one  eyebrow  raised  to  enclose  it 
safely  —  and  waited  for  her  to  give  herself  away. 
Swaying  beneath  that  shining  disk,  she  did  it  in- 
fallibly; and  he  heard  her  out  at  leisure,  and  ac- 
cepted her. 

That's  poetry  of  course.  Really,  it  came  near 
to  that.  He  had  said  to  her  at  a  garden-party, 
in  his  easiest,  airiest  manner,  "  You  can't  help 
knowing  that  I  am  in  love  with  you.  Now,  don't 
you  think  that  we  should  be  a  happy  couple?  I 
do.  What  do  you  say,  Lucy?  Shall  we  have  a 
shot?"  He  had  taken  her  hand  —  they  were 
alone  under  a  cedar  tree  —  and  she  had  not  known 
how  to  take  it  away.  She  was  then  kissed,  and 
had  lost  any  opportunity  there  might  have  been. 
That  was  what  really  happened,  and  as  she  told 
her  sister  Mabel  some  time  afterwards,  when  the 


ONSLOW  SQUARE  n 

engagement  had  been  made  public  and  there  could 
be  no  question  of  going  back,  "  You  know,  Mabel, 
he  seemed  to  expect  it,  and  I  couldn't  help  feeling 
at  the  time  that  he  was  justified."  Mabel,  tossing 
her  head  up,  had  protested,  "  Oh,  my  dear,  nobody 
knows  whether  he  was  justified  but  yourself;  "  and 
Lucy,  "  No,  of  course  not."  "  The  question," 
Mabel  went  on,  "  is  whether  you  encouraged  him 
or  not."  Lucy  was  clear  about  that:  "  No,  not 
the  least  in  the  world.  He  —  encouraged  him- 
self. I  felt  that  I  simply  had  to  do  something." 
I  suspect  that  that  is  perfectly  true.  I  am  sure 
that  he  did  just  as  I  said  he  always  did,  and  bluffed 
her  into  marriage  with  an  eyeglass  and  smile  awry, 
Whether  or  no  he  bluffed  himself  into  it  too, 
tempted  by  the  power  of  his  magic  apparatus,  is 
precisely  the  matter  which  I  am  to  determine.  It 
may  have  been  so  —  but  anyhow  the  facts  show 
you  how  successful  he  was  in  doing  what  had  to 
be  done.  Cosa  fatta  capo  ha,  as  the  proverb  says. 
The  thing  done,  whether  wisely  or  not,  was 
smoothly  done.  Everything  was  of  a  piece  with 
that.  He  pulled  off  whatever  he  tried  for,  with- 
out any  apparent  effort.  People  used  to  say  that 
he  was  like  a  river,  smoothly  flowing,  very  deep, 
rippling,  constant  in  mutability,  husbanding  and 


12  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

guiding  his  eddies.  It's  not  a  bad  figure  of  him. 
He  liked  it  himself,  and  smiled  more  askew  and 
peered  more  blandly  when  he  heard  it. 

Small  things  betray  men.  Here  is  one.  His 
signature  was  invariably  in  full:  "Yours  very 
truly,  James  Adolphus  Macartney."  It  was  as  if 
he  knew  that  Adolphus  was  rather  comic  opera, 
but  wouldn't  stoop  to  disguise  it.  Why  bother? 
He  crowded  it  upon  the  Bishop,  upon  the  Dean 
and  Chapter  of  Mells,  upon  old  Lord  Drake. 
He  said,  "  Why  conceal  the  fact  that  my  sponsors 
made  a  faux  pas?  There  it  is,  and  have  done 
with  it.  Such  things  have  only  to  be  faced  to  be 
seen  as  nothings.  What!  are  we  reasonable  be- 
ings?" 

Now  when  Lucy  Meade,  practically  a  child  for 
all  her  sedateness  and  serious  eyes,  married  him, 
two  things  terrified  her  on  the  day.  One  was  her 
husband  and  the  other  lest  her  friends  should  dis- 
cover it.  They  never  did,  and  in  time  her  panic 
wore  off.  She  fought  it  in  the  watches  of  the 
night  and  in  the  glare  of  her  lonely  days.  Not  a 
soul,  not  her  mother,  not  even  Mabel,  knew  her 
secret.  James  never  became  comic  to  her;  she 
never  saw  him  a  figure  of  fun;  but  she  was  able  to 
treat  him  as  a  human  being.  Lancelot's  arrival 


ONSLOW  SQUARE  13 

made  all  the  difference  in  the  world  to  that  matter 
as  to  all  her  other  matters,  for  even  Lucy  herself 
could  not  help  seeing  how  absurdly  jealous  James 
was  of  his  offspring.  For  a  time  he  was  thrown 
clean  out  of  the  saddle  and  as  near  falling  in  his 
own  esteem  as  ever  in  life.  But  he  recovered 
his  balance,  and  though  he  never  regained  his  old 
ascendency,  which  had  been  that  of  a  Ju-ju,  he  was 
able  to  feel  himself,  as  he  said,  "  Master  in  his 
own  house,"  with  a  very  real  reserve  of  terrorism 
—  if  it  should  be  wanted.  The  great  thing, 
Macartney  thought,  was  discipline,  constant, 
watchful  discipline.  A  man  must  bend  everything 
to  that.  Women  have  to  learn  the  virtue  of  giv- 
ing up,  as  well  as  of  giving.  Giving  is  easy;  any 
woman  knows  that;  but  giving  up.  Let  that  be 
seen  as  a  subtle,  a  sublimated  form  of  giving,  and 
the  lesson  is  learned.  But  practice  makes  perfect. 
You  must  never  relax  the  rein.  He  never  did. 
There  was  all  the  ingenuity  and  patience  of  a 
woman  about  him. 

By  this  time,  after  twelve  years  and  more  of 
marriage,  they  were  very  good  friends;  or,  why 
not  say,  old  acquaintances?  There  are  two  kinds 
of  crystallisation  in  love  affairs,  with  all  respect 
to  M.  de  Stendhal.  One  kind  hardens  the  sur- 


i4  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

faces  without  any  decorative  effect.  There  are  no 
facets  visible,  no  angles  to  catch  the  light.  In  the 
case  of  the  Macartney  marriage  I  suspect  this  to 
have  been  the  only  kind  —  a  kind  of  callosity,  pro- 
tective and  numbing.  The  less  they  were  thrown 
together,  she  found,  the  better  friends  they  werer 
At  home  they  were  really  no  more  than  neigh- 
bours ;  abroad  she  was  Mrs.  Macartney,  and  never 
would  dine  out  without  him.  She  was  old- 
fashioned;  her  friends  called  her  a  prude.  But 
she  was  not  at  all  unhappy.  She  liked  to  think 
of  Lancelot,  she  said,  and  to  be  quiet.  And 
really,  as  Miss  Bacchus  (a  terrible  old  woman) 
once  said,  Lucy  was  so  little  of  a  married  woman 
that  she  was  perfectly  innocent. 

But  she  was  one-and-thirty,  and  as  sweet  and 
pretty  a  woman  as  you  would  wish  to  see.  She 
had  the  tender,  dragging  smile  of  a  Luini  Ma- 
donna ;  grave,  twilight  eyes,  full  of  compassionate 
understanding;  very  dark  eyebrows,  very  long 
lashes,  like  the  fringe  of  rain  over  a  moorland 
landscape.  She  had  a  virginal  shape,  and  liked 
her  clothes  to  cling  about  her  knees.  Long  fin- 
gers, longish,  thin  feet.  But  her  humorous  sense 
was  acute  and  very  delightful,  and  all  children 
loved  her.  Such  charms  as  these  must  have 
been  as  obvious  to  herself  as  they  were  to  every- 


ONSLOW  SQUARE  15, 

body  else.  She  had  a  modest  little  court  of  her 
own.  Francis  Lingen  was  almost  admittedly  in 
love  with  her;  one  of  Macartney's  friends.  But 
she  accepted  her  riches  soberly,  and  did  not  fret 
that  they  must  be  so  hoarded.  If,  by  moments, 
as  she  saw  herself,  or  looked  at  herself,  in  the 
glass,  a  grain  of  bitterness  surged  up  in  her  throat, 
that  all  this  fair  seeming  could  not  be  put  out  to 
usury  — !  well,  she  put  it  to  herself  very  differ- 
ently, not  at  all  in  words,  but  in  narrowed  scrutin- 
ising eyes,  half-turns  of  the  pretty  head,  a  sigh  and 
lips  pressed  together.  There  had  been  —  nay, 
there  was  —  Lancelot,  her  darling.  That  was 
usufruct;  but  usury  was  a  different  thing.  There 
had  never  been  what  you  would  call,  or  Miss  Bac- 
chus would  certainly  call,  usury.  That,  indeed  1 
She  would  raise  her  fine  brows,  compress  her  lips, 
and  turn  to  her  bed,  then  put  out  the  light.  Lying 
awake  very  often,  she  might  hear  James  chain  the 
front  door,  trumpet  through  his  nose  on  the  mat, 
and  slowly  mount  the  stairs  to  his  own  room.  She 
thought  resolutely  of  Lancelot  pursuing  his  pant- 
ing quests  at  school,  or  of  her  garden  in  mid- June, 
or  of  the  gorse  afire  on  Wycross  Common, —  and 
so  to  sleep. 

A  long  chapter,  but  you  will  know  the  Macart- 
ney pair  by  means  of  it. 


CHAPTER  II 

A   DINNER   PARTY 

THIS  was  not  to  be  one  of  Macartney's 
grand  full-dress  dinner-parties,  the  sort 
where  you  might  have  two  lords,  and 
would  be  sure  to  have  one  with  his  lady;  or  a  Cabi- 
net Minister  in  a  morning-coat  and  greenish  tie ;  or 
a  squire  and  squiress  from  Northumberland  up  for 
a  month  of  the  season;  or  the  Dean  of  Mells. 
No,  nor  was  it  to  be  one  which  Lucy  had  to  give 
to  her  visiting-list,  and  at  which,  as  Macartney 
rarely  failed  to  remark,  there  was  bound  to  be  a 
clergyman,  and  some  lean  woman  with  straw-col- 
oured hair  interested  in  a  Settlement.  It  was  to 
be  a  particular  kind  of  dinner-party,  this  one,  of 
which  the  first  object  was  to  bring  Urquhart  in 
touch  with  Lingen.  It  could  have  been  done  at  a 
club,  no  doubt.  Macartney  admitted  it.  "  Yes, 
I  know,  I  know," — he  used  his  most  tired  voice, 
as  if  he  had  been  combating  the  suggestion  all 
along.  "You  are  perfectly  right.  It  might  — 

16 


A  DINNER  PARTY  17 

if  it  had  not  happened  to  be  exactly  what  I  didn't 
want.  Jimmy  Urquhart  is  rather  a  queer  fish. 
He  is  apt  to  shy  off  if  one  is  not  careful.  It  don't 
suit  me  to  bring  them  together  explicitly,  do  you 
see?  I  want  them  to  happen  on  each  other. 
They  can  do  that  better  here  than  anywhere.  Do 
you  see?  " 

Lucy  saw,  or  saw  enough.  She  never  enquired 
into  James's  law  affairs.  "  Shall  I  like  Mr.  Ur- 
quhart, do  you  think?  "  she  asked  him. 

The  eyeglass  focussed  upon  the  cornice,  and 
glared  at  a  fly  which  found  itself  belated  there. 
"Oh,  I  think  so.  Why  not?" 

"  Well,  you  see,  I  don't  know  why  not  —  or 
why  I  should.  Have  I  ever  seen  him?  " 

James  was  bored.  "  No  doubt  you  have. 
He's  very  much  about." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lucy,  "  but  I  am  not." 

James  left  the  fly,  and  fixed  her  —  apparently 
with  horror.  Then  he  looked  at  his  boots  and 
moved  his  toes  up  and  down.  "  He  looks  like  a 
naval  officer,"  he  said;  "  you  instinctively  seek  the 
cuffs  of  his  coat.  Beef-coloured  face,  blue  eyes,  a 
square-jawed  chap.  Yes,  you  might  like  him. 
He  might  amuse  you.  He's  a  great  liar."  Lucy 
thought  that  she  might  like  Mr.  Urquhart. 


1 8  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

On  those  lines  the  party* was  arranged:  the 
Blisses  because  "we  owe  them  a  dinner;  and  I 
think  the  Judge  will  be  amused  by  Jimmy ;  "  the 
Worthingtons  —  make-weights ;  but  "  She's  a  soft 
pink  woman,  like  a  Persian  kitten." 

"  Does  Mr.  Urquhart  like  that?"  Lucy  asked, 
but  James,  who  didn't  like  his  jokes  to  be  capped, 
said  drily,  "  I  don't  know." 

Then  Lucy's  favourite  sister  Mabel  was  to  be 
allowed  because  James  rather  liked  Corbet.  He 
thought  him  good  style.  Now  we  wanted  two 
women.  One  must  be  Miss  Bacchus  — "  hideous, 
of  course,"  said  James;  "a  kind  of  crime,  but 
very  smart."  He  meant  that  she  mixed  with  the 
aristocracy,  which  was  true,  though  nobody  knew 
why.  The  last  was  to  be  Margery  Dacre,  a  very 
pretty  girl.  Lucy  put  her  forward,  and  James 
thought  her  over,  gazing  out  of  window.  "  I  like 
her  name,"  he  said  —  so  Lucy  knew  that  she  was 
admitted. 

That  was  all.  The  rest  was  her  care,  and  he 
washed  his  mind  of  it,  very  sure  that  she  would 
see  to  it.  He  wished  the  two  men  to  meet  for  a 
particular  reason  in  a  haphazard  way,  because  it 
was  better  to  drift  Urquhart  into  a  thing  than  to 
lead  him  up  to  it.  Moreover,  it  was  not  at  all  dis- 


A  DINNER  PARTY  19 

agreeable  to  him  that  Urquhart,  a  club  and  office 
acquaintance,  should  see  how  comfortably  placed 
he  was,  how  well  appointed  with  wife  and  child, 
with  manservant  and  maidservant  and  everything 
that  was  his.  Urquhart  was  a  rich  man,  and  to 
know  that  his  lawyer  was  rich  was  no  bad  thing. 
It  inspired  confidence.  Now  the  particular  thing 
to  be  done  with  the  two  men,  Francis  Lingen  and 
Urquhart,  was  this.  Francis  Lingen,  who  might 
be  a  baronet  some  day  and  well  to  do,  was  at  the 
moment,  as  at  most  moments  hitherto,  very  short 
of  money.  Urquhart  always  had  plenty.  Ma- 
cartney's idea  was  that  he  might  get  Urquhart  to 
fill  Francis  Lingen's  pockets,  on  terms  which  could 
easily  be  arranged.  There  was  ample  security,  of 
course.  Francis  Lingen  could  have  gone  to  the 
Jews,  or  the  bank,  but  if  the  thing  could  be  done 
in  a  gentlemanly  way  through  one's  lawyer,  who 
also  happened  to  be  a  gentleman,  in  one's  own  set, 
and  so  on  —  well,  why  not? 

Hence  the  little  dinner,  over  whose  setting 
forth  Lucy  puckered  her  brows  with  Mrs.  Jenkins, 
her  admirable  cook,  and  wrote  many  notes  on 
little  slips  of  paper  which  she  kept  for  the  purpose. 
She  knew  quite  well  when  James  was  "  particular  " 
about  a  party.  He  said  less  than  usual  when  he 


20  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

was  "  particular."  Over  this  one  he  said  prac- 
tically nothing.  So  she  toiled,  and  made  a  success 
of  it. 

The  drawing-room  looked  charming,  and  she 
herself  in  black  over  white,  with  her  pearls,  the 
most  charming  thing  in  it.  It  wanted  a  week  of 
Lancelot's  day  for  school;  he  was  to  come  in  to 
dessert  —  that  was  understood.  But  the  possible 
danger  of  a  thirteenth  was  removed  by  their  being 
two  tables  of  six  each.  James  had  suddenly  or- 
dered this  variation  of  practice  —  he  did  not  say 
why  —  and  so  it  was  to  be.  Crewdson,  the  in- 
valuable butler-valet  of  the  house,  who  presided 
over  a  zenana  of  maids,  and  seemed  to  carry  his 
whiskers  into  the  fray  like  an  oriflamme,  was  visi- 
bly perturbed  at  this  new  notion.  "  Mr.  Macart- 
ney has  his  reason,  we  know.  But  how  is  one  gen- 
tleman's servant  to  split  himself  in  halves?  And 
where  does  he  stand,  Mrs.  Jenkins?  With  tables 
dotted  about  —  like  a  cafe  —  or  an  archum- 
pelygo  ?  "  He  knew  that  it  was  done  in  the  high- 
est places,  but  he  knew  his  own  place  best.  "  We 
are  not  what  you  call  the  smart  set,"  he  said. 
"  We  are  not  Park  Lane  or  Brook  Street.  But 
we  are  solid  —  the  professions  —  the  land  and  the 
church.  No  jinks  in  this  house.  And  small 


A  DINNER  PARTY  21 

tables  is  jinks.  Not  a  dinner,  but  a  kick-up."  So 
Crewdson  thought,  and  so  he  looked,  but  his  mas- 
ter was  flint. 

Mabel  came  the  first,  the  lively  and  successful 
Mabel,  two  years  younger  than  Lucy  —  she  and 
Laurence:  he  was  Laurence  Corbet,  Esq.,  of  Pel- 
try Park,  Wavertree,  and  Roehampton,  S.W.,  a 
hunting  man  and  retired  soldier,  as  neatly  groomed 
as  a  man  may  be.  He  was  jolly,  and  adored  his 
Mabel.  He  was  county,  and  approved  by  James. 
Lucy  used  to  say  of  him  that  his  smile  could  cure 
a  toothache.  Lancelot  pounced  upon  the  pair  in- 
stantly and  retired  with  them  to  the  conservatory 
to  show  off  his  orange-tree,  whose  pip  had  been 
plunged  on  his  first  birthday.  But  before  long 
a  suspicious  sliding  of  the  feet  and  a  shout  from 
Corbet  of  "  Goal !  "  betrayed  the  orange-tree's 
eclipse. 

Next  plunged  Miss  Bacchus,  with  her  front  hair 
and  front  teeth,  and  air  of  digging  you  in  the  ribs. 
She  explained  that  she  made  a  point  of  being  early 
lest  she  should  be  taken  for  an  actress,  and  fore- 
stalled Macartney's  assurance  that  she  never 
would  be  —  which  annoyed  him.  The  Worthing- 
tons  —  she  like  an  autumn  flower-bed,  and  he  pale 
and  sleek  —  and  Francis  Lingen  came  in  together : 


22  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

Lingen,  a  very  elegant,  pale  pink  and  frail  young 
man  with  a  straw-coloured  moustache,  who  bowed 
when  he  shook  your  hand  as  if  he  was  going  to 
kiss  it  but  remembered  just  in  time  that  he  was  in 
England.  He  lowered  his  voice  when  he  spoke  to 
women,  and  most  of  them  liked  it.  Lucy  wasn't 
sure  whether  she  did  or  not.  It  made  her  self- 
conscious  and  perverse  at  once.  She  found  her- 
self wondering  (a)  whether  he  was  going  to  make 
love  to  her,  (b)  when  he  was  going  to  begin,  and 
(c)  how  she  might  best  cut  him  out.  All  this  was 
bewildering,  made  her  feel  stupid,  and  annoyed 
her.  But  she  really  liked  Francis  Lingen,  and 
had  been  amused  to  discover  how  much  he  was 
"  Francis  "  in  her  private  mind.  Certainly  he 
was  very  elegant.  He  had  an  outside  pocket  to 
his  dress  coat,  and  a  handkerchief  which  you  could 
have  plugged  your  tooth  with. 

He  had  just  said  to  Lucy,  "  I'm  so  glad  to  see 
you.  It's  more  than  a  week  since  we  met  —  and 
I  want  your  advice  — "  when  Crewdson,  like  a 
priest,  announced  Sir  Matthew  and  Lady  Bliss. 
The  Judge  and  his  dame  were  before  Lucy  —  the 
lady  had  a  motherly  soul  in  crimson  satin  and 
paste,  the  gentleman  square  and  solid,  like  a  pillar- 


A  DINNER  PARTY  23 

box  with  a  bald  head.  That  is  a  pretty  exact  de- 
scription of  him.  The  Judge  was  very  square- 
headed,  very  shiny  and  very  plain;  but  he  was 
solid,  and  he  was  useful.  Macartney  used  to  say 
that  he  hn!  a  face  like  a  bad  egg.  Certainly  he 
was  curdled  —  but  he  shone  and  looked  healthy. 

Lucy  allowed  herself  to  be  mothered,  and  in  the 
meantime  murmured  the  Judge's  name  and  Miss 
Bacchus's. 

"  Everybody  knows  Miss  Bacchus,"  said  the 
gallant  man,  and  Miss  Bacchus  briskly  rejoined, 
"  More  people  know  Tom  Fool  — "  After  that 
they  got  on  excellently.  Then  she  heard  from  the 
door,  "  Mr.  Urquhart "  and  had  time  to  turn 
Francis  Lingen  over  to  Lady  Bliss  before  she 
faced  the  ruddy  and  blue-eyed  stranger.  Her 
first  thought,  the  only  one  she  had  time  for,  was 
"  What  very  blue  eyes,  what  a  very  white  shirt- 
front  !  "  when  she  shook  hands. 

"  How  d'ye  do?  You  won't  know  who  I  am," 
he  said  at  once. 

"  Oh,  but  I  do,"  she  assured  him.  "  James 
described  you  to  me." 

He  blinked.  "  Oh,  did  he?  I  suppose  he  told 
you  I  was  a  great  liar?  " 


24  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

James's  very  words.  She  nodded  without 
speaking,  but  laughter  flickered  over  her  face  like 
summer  lightning. 

"Well,"  said  Urquhart,  "I  am  —  to  him. 
I've  known  Macartney  for  years — long  before 
you  did.  I  like  him,  but  I  think  he  gives  himself 
airs.  Now  you  can't,  you  know,  when  the  man 
with  you  is  a  liar.  You  never  know  where  to  have 
a  liar,  or  whether  you  have  him  or  not.  And 
then  you  get  in  a  fright  whether  he's  not  having 
you.  Macartney,  saving  your  presence,  doesn't 
like  being  had." 

Lucy  laughed,  and  turned  to  wave  her  hand  to 
Lancelot  in  the  entry  of  the  conservatory. 

"  That  your  boy?  "  Urquhart  asked.  "  But  of 
course.  He's  like  you  —  with  his  father's  tricks." 
That  was  perfectly  true.  "  And  that's  your  sis- 
ter, of  course.  Pretty  woman.  Like  you  too  — 
you  in  a  sunset."  Perfect  unconsciousness  robbed 
this  open  commentary  of  sting. 

Upon  him  drifted  Mrs.  Worthington,  like  a 
peony  in  the  tideway.  Urquhart  bowed.  "  Youf 
servant,  ma'am." 

She  cried,  "  Hullo,  Jimmy,  you  here?  " 

"Where  else?" 

"  Why,  I  thought  you  were  in  Switzerland." 


A  DINNER  PARTY  25 

"  So  I  was,"  he  said.  "  All  among  the  curates. 
But  I  came  back  —  because  they  didn't."  He 
turned  to  Lucy.  "  And  because  I  was  asked 
here." 

She  asked  him,  "  Were  you  ski-ing?  Lancelot 
will  grudge  you  that." 

He  told  her,  "  I  was  not.  No  lonely  death  for 
me.  I  was 'bobbing  it.  You  are  swept  off  by 
dozens  at  a  time  there  —  by  fifties  in  a  cave.  It's 
more  cheerful."  Then  he  seemed  to  remark 
something  which  he  thought  she  ought  to  know. 
"Jimmy.  You  heard  her?  Now  Macartney 
and  I  are  both  called  James.  But  who  ever  made 
a  Jimmy  of  him?  "  She  was  annoyed  with  him 
—  the  man  seemed  to  suppose  she  could  be  pleased 
by  crabbing  James  —  and  glad  of  Margery  Dacre, 
a  mermaid  in  sea-green,  who  swam  in  with  apolo- 
gies —  due  to  Macartney's  abhorrent  eyeglass 
upon  her.  And  then  they  all  went  in  to  their 
archumpelygo,  where  Crewdson  and  his  ladies 
were  waiting  for  them,  rari  nautes. 

Lucy's  table  —  she  was  between  the  Judge  and 
Urquhart  and  had  Mabel,  Worthington  and  Miss 
Bacchus  before  her  —  at  once  took  the  mastery. 
Urquhart  fixed  Crewdson  with  his  eye  and  thence- 
forward commanded  him.  James's  eyeglass, 


26  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

speechless  with  horror  over  Lady  Bliss's  shoulder, 
glared  like  a  frosty  moon. 

Miss  Bacchus,  it  seems,  was  his  old  acquaint- 
ance. She  too  called  him  Jimmy,  and  drove  at 
him  with  vigour.  He  charged  her  not  to  rally 
him,  and  being  between  the  two  sisters,  talked  to 
both  of  them  at  once,  or  rather  started  them  off, 
as  a  music-hall  singer  starts  the  gallery,  and  then 
let  them  go  on  over  his  head. 

They  talked  of  Wycross,  Lucy's  house  in  the 
country,  compared  it  with  Peltry,  which  Mabel 
deprecated  as  a  barrack,  and  came  to  hear  of  Ur- 
quhart's  house  in  the  New  Forest.  It  was  called 
Martley  Thicket.  Urquhart  said  it  was  a  good 
sort  of  place.  "  I've  made  an  immense  lake,"  he 
said,  with  his  eyes  so  very  wide  that  Miss  Bac- 
chus said,  "  You're  making  two,  now."  He  de- 
scribed Martley  and  the  immense  lake.  "  House 
stands  high  in  beech  woods,  but  is  cut  out  to  the 
south.  It  heads  a  valley  —  lawns  on  three  sides, 
smooth  as,  billiard  tables  —  then  the  lake  with  a 
marble  lip  —  and  steps  —  broad  and  low  steps, 
in  flights  of  eight.  Very  good,  you  know.  You 
shall  see  it." 

Lucy  wanted  to  know,  "  How  big  was  the  lake, 
really." 


A  DINNER  PARTY  27 

Urquhart  said,  "  It  looked  a  mile  —  but  that's 
the  art  of  the  thing.  Really,  it's  two  hundred 
and  fifty  yards.  Much  better  than  a  jab  in  the 
eye  with  a  blunt  stick.  I  did  it  by  drainage,  and 
a  dam.  Took  a  year  to  get  the  water  up.  When 
a  hunted  stag  took  to  it  and  swam  across,  I  felt 
that  I'd  done  something.  Fishing?  I  should 
think  so.  And  a  bathing-house  in  a  wooded  cor- 
ner —  in  a  cane-brake  of  bamboos.  You'll  like 
it." 

Miss  Bacchus  said,  "  I  don't  believe  a  word  of 
it;  "  but  he  seemed  not  to  hear  her. 

"When  will  you  come  and  see  it?"  he  asked 
Lucy. 

She  agreed  that  see  it  she  must,  if  only  to  settle 
whether  it  existed  or  not.  "  You  see  that  Miss 
Bacchus  has  no  doubts." 

Urquhart  said,  "  She  never  has  —  about  any- 
thing. She  is  fixed  in  certainty  like  a  bee  in 
amber.  A  dull  life." 

"  Bless  you,  Jimmy,"  she  said,  "  I  thrive  on  it 
—  and  you'll  never  thrive." 

"  Pooh !  "  said  Urquhart,  "  what  you  call  thriv- 
ing I  call  degradation.  What  I  you  snuggle  in 
there  out  of  the  draughts  —  and  then  somebody 
comes  along  and  rubs  you,  and  picks  up  bits  of 


28  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

paper  with  you."  His  good  spirits  made  the 
thing  go  —  and  James's  eyeglass  prevailed  not 
against  it. 

But  Urquhart's  real  triumph  was  at  dessert  — 
Lancelot  sedately  by  his  mother;  between  her 
and  the  Judge,  who  briskly  made  way  for  him. 
Lancelot  in  his  Eton  jacket  took  on  an  air  of  pre- 
cocious, meditative  wisdom  infinitely  diverting  to  a 
man  who  reflects  upon  boys  —  and,  no  doubt,  in- 
finitely provocative. 

His  coming  broke  up  the  talk  and  made  one  of 
those  momentous  pauses  which  are  sometimes 
paralysing  to  a  table.  This  one  was  so,  and  even 
threatened  the  neighbouring  island.  Upon  it 
broke  the  voice  of  Urquhart  talking  to  Mabel 
Corbet. 

"  I  was  out  in  Corfu  in  1906,"  he  was  heard  to 
say;  "  I  was  in  fact  in  the  bath,  when  one  of  my 
wives  came  to  the  door,  and  said  that  there  was  a 
Turk  in  the  almond-tree.  I  got  a  duck-gun  which 
I  had  and  went  out — "  Lancelot's  eyes,  fixed 
and  pulsing,  interdicted  him.  They  held  up  the 
monologue.  In  his  hand  was  a  robust  apple ;  but 
that  was  forgotten. 

"  I  say,"  he  said,  "  have  you  got  two  wives?  " 

Urquhart's  eyes  met  his  with  an  extenuating 


A  DINNER  PARTY  29 

look.  "  It  was  some  time  ago,  you  see,"  he  said; 
and  then,  passing  it  off,  "  There  are  as  many  as 
you  like  out  there.  Dozens." 

Lancelot  absorbed  this  explanation  through  the 
eyes.  You  could  see  them  at  it,  chewing  it  like 
a  cud.  He  was  engrossed  in  it  —  Lucy  watched 
him.  "  I  say  —  two  wives!  "  and  then,  giving  it 
up,  with  a  savage  attack  he  bit  into  his  apple  and 
became  incoherent.  One  cheek  bulged  danger- 
ously and  required  all  his  present  attention. 
Finally,  after  a  time  of  high  tension,  Urquhart's 
wives  and  the  apple  were  bolted  together,  and 
given  over  to  the  alimentary  juices.  The  Turk 
in  the  almond-tree  was  lost  sight  of,  and  no  one 
knows  why  he  was  there,  or  how  he  was  got  out 
—  if  indeed  he  ever  was.  For  all  that,  Urqu- 
hart  finished  his  story  to  his  two  ladies;  but  Lucy 
paid  him  divided  attention,  being  more  interested 
in  her  Lancelot  than  in  Urquhart's  Turk. 

Francis  Lingen,  at  the  other  table,  kept  a  cold 
eye  upon  the  easy  man  who  was  to  provide  him 
with  ready  money,  as  he  hoped.  He  admired 
ease  as  much  as  anybody,  and  believed  that  he  had 
it.  But  he  was  very  much  in  love  with  Lucy,  and 
felt  the  highest  disapproval  of  Urquhart's  kind 
of  spread-eagle  hardihood.  He  bent  over  his 


30  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

plate  like  the  willow-tree  upon  one.  His  eyelids 
glimmered,  he  was  rather  pink,  and  used  his  nap- 
kin to  his  lips.  To  his  neighbour  of  the  left,  who 
was  Lady  Bliss,  he  spoke  sotto  voce  of  "  our  varie- 
gated friend,"  and  felt  that  he  had  disposed  of 
him.  But  that  "  one  of  his  wives  "  filled  him 
with  a  sullen  despair.  What  were  you  to  do  with 
that  sort  of  man?  Macartney  saw  all  this  and 
was  dreadfully  bored.  "  Damn  Jimmy  Urqu- 
hart,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  Now  I  shall  have  to 
work  for  my  living  —  which  I  hate,  after  dinner." 
But  he  did  it.  "We'll  go  and  talk  to  the 
Judge,"  he  said  to  his  company,  and  led  the  way. 
Urquhart  settled  down  to  claret,  and  was  taciturn. 
He  answered  Linden's  tentative  openings  in  mono- 
syllables. But  he  and  the  Judge  got  on  very  well. 


CHAPTER  III 

IN  THE  DRAWING-ROOM 

AFTER  dinner,  when  the  men  came  into  the 
drawing-room,  Francis  Lingen  went  di- 
rectly to  Lucy  and  began  to  talk  to  her. 
Lancelot  fidgeted  for  Urquhart  who,  however, 
was  in  easy  converse  with  the  Judge  and  his  host 
—  looking  at  the  water-colours  as  the  talk  went 
on,  and  cutting  in  as  a  thought  struck  him.  Lucy, 
seeing  that  all  her  guests  were  reasonably  occu- 
pied, lent  herself  to  Lingen's  murmured  conversa- 
tion, and  felt  for  it  just  so  much  tolerance,  so  much 
compassion,  you  may  say,  as  to  be  able  to  brave 
Mabel's  quizzing  looks  from  across  the  room. 
Mabel  always  had  a  gibe  for  Francis  Lingen. 
She  called  him  the  Ewe  Lamb,  and  that  kind  of 
thing.  It  was  plain  that  she  scorned  him.  Lucy, 
on  the  other  hand,  pitied  him  without  knowing  it, 
which  was  even  more  desperate  for  the  young 
man.  It  had  never  entered  Lingen's  head,  how- 
ever, that  anybody  could  pity  him.  True,  he  was 
poor;  but  then  he  was  very  expensive.  He  liked 


32  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

good  things;  he  liked  them  choice.  And  they 
must  have  distinction;  above  all,  they  must  be 
rare.  He  had  some  things  which  were  unique :  a 
chair  in  ivory  and  bronze,  one  of  a  set  made  for 
Mme.  de  Lamballe,  and  two  of  Horace  Walpole's 
snuff-boxes.  He  had  a  private  printing-press,  and 
did  his  own  poems,  on  vellum.  He  had  turned 
off  a  poem  to  Lucy  while  she  was  inspecting  the 
appareil  once.  "  To  L.  M.  from  the  Fount." 
"  Sonnets  while  you  wait,"  said  Mabel,  curving 
her  upper  lip;  but  there  was  nothing  in  it,  because 
many  ladies  had  received  the  same  tribute.  He 
had  borrowed  that  too  from  Horace  Walpole, 
and  only  wanted  notice.  Now  you  don't  pity  a 
man  who  can  do  these  things,  even  if  he  has  got 
no  money;  and  for  what  else  but  want  of  money 
could  you  pity  a  man  of  taste? 

I  believe  myself  that  both  Mabel  and  Lucy 
overrated  Francis  Lingen's  attentions.  I  don't 
think  that  they  amounted  to  much  more  than  pro- 
viding himself  with  a  sounding-board,  and  occa- 
sional looking-glass.  He  loved  to  talk,  and  to 
know  himself  listened  to ;  he  loved  to  look  and  to 
know  himself  looked  at.  You  learned  a  lot  about 
yourself  that  way.  You  saw  how  your  things 
were  taken.  A  poet  —  for  he  called  himself  poet, 


IN  THE  DRAWING-ROOM          33 

and  had  once  so  described  himself  in  a  hotel  visi- 
tors' book  —  a  poet  can  only  practise  his  art  by 
exerting  it,  and  only  learn  its  effect  by  studying 
his  hearers.  He  preferred  ladies  for  audience, 
and  one  lady  at  a  time :  there  were  obvious  reasons 
for  that.  Men  never  like  other  men's  poetry. 
Wordsworth,  we  know,  avowedly  read  but  his 
own. 

But  Mabel,  and  Lucy  too,  read  all  sorts  of  im- 
plications. His  lowered  tones,  his  frequency,  his 
persistence  —  "  My  dear,  he  caresses  you  with  his 
eyes.  You  know  he  does,"  Mabel  used  to  say. 
Lucy  wondered  whether  he  really  did,  and  ended 
by  .supposing  it. 

Just  now,  therefore,  Francis  Lingen  flowed 
murmuring  on  his  way,  like  a  purling  brook,  rip- 
pling, fluctuant,  carrying  insignificant  straws,  in- 
sects of  the  hour,  on  his  course,  never  jamming, 
or  heaving  up,  monotonous  but  soothing.  And  as 
for  implications  — !  Good  Heavens,  he  was 
stuffed  with  them  like  a  Michaelmas  goose.  .  .  . 
"  I  do  so  wish  that  you  could  talk  with  her.  You 
could  do  so  much  to  straighten  things  out  for  the 
poor  child.  You  are  so  wise.  There's  a  kind  of 
balm  in  your  touch  upon  life,  something  that's 
aromatic  and  healing  at  once.  Sainfoin,  the  heal- 


34  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

ing  herb  —  that  should  be  your  emblem.  I  have 
always  thought  so.  By  the  by,  have  you  an  em- 
blem? I  wish  you'd  let  me  find  you  one.  Old 
Gerrard  will  give  it  me  —  and  I  will  give  it  to 
you.  Some  patient,  nimble-fingered  good  soul  has 
coloured  my  copy.  You  shall  have  it  faithfully 
rendered;  and  it  shall  be  framed  by  Le  Notre  of 
Vigo  Street  —  do  you  know  his  work?  You  must 
—  and  stand  on  your  writing-table.  ...  I  see 
you  are  shaping  a  protest.  Frugality?  Another 
of  your  shining  qualities.  Not  of  mine?  No, 
no.  I  admire  it  in  you.  It  is  not  a  manly  virtue. 
A  '  frugal  swain  '  means  a  harassed  wife.  Now, 
confess.  Would  you  have  me  board?  I  believe 
I  would  do  it  if  you  asked  me  .  .  ."  Not 
very  exciting,  all  this;  but  if  you  want  implica- 
tions— ! 

It  was  while  this  was  going  on  that  Lancelot, 
hovering  and  full  of  purpose,  annexed  Urquhart. 
The  Judge,  suddenly  aware  of  him  between  them, 
put  a  hand  upon  his  head  as  you  might  fondle  the 
top  of  a  pedestal  —  which  Lancelot,  intent  upon 
his  prey,  endured.  Then  his  moment  came,  a 
decent  subsidence  of  anecdotes,  and  his  upturned 
eyes  caught  Urquhart's. 

"  I  say,  will  you  come  and  see  my  orange-tree  ? 


IN  THE  DRAWING-ROOM          35 

It's  just  over  there,  in  the  conservatory.  It's 
rather  interesting  —  to  me,  you  know." 

Urquhart  considered  the  proposition.  "  Yes," 
he  said,  "  I'll  do  that."  And  they  went  off,  Lance- 
lot on  tiptoe.  Lucy's  attention  strayed. 

The  orange-tree  was  exhibited,  made  the  most 
of;  its  history  was  related.  There  was  nothing 
more  to  say  about  it.  Lancelot,  his  purpose  grow- 
ing, gave  a  nervous  laugh. 

"  No  Turk  could  hide  in  that,  I  expect,"  he  said, 
and  trembled.  Urquhart  gazed  at  the  weedy  lit- 
tle growth. 

"No,"  he  said,  "he  couldn't  —  yet.  But  a 
ladybird  could."  He  picked  out  a  dormant  spec- 
imen. But  Lancelot  was  now  committed  to  ac- 
tion beyond  recall.  The  words  burned  his  lips. 
"  I  say,"  he  said,  twiddling  a  leaf  of  his  orange- 
tree,  "  I  expect  you've  been  a  pirate?  " 

The  Judge  had  wandered  in,  and  was  surveying 
the  pair,  his  hands  deep  in  his  trousers-pockets. 

Urquhart  nodded.     "  You've  bit  it,"  he  said. 

Lancelot  had  been  certain  of  it.  Good  Lord! 
The  questions  crowded  upon  him.  "  What  kind 
of  a  ship  was  yours?  " 

"  She  was  a  brigantine.  Fifteen  hundred 
tons." 


3 6  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

"  Oh !  I  say  — "  with  the  air  of,  You  needn't  tell 
me  if  you'd  rather  not — "  was  she  a  good  one?  " 

"  She  was  a  clipper." 

"What  name?" 

11  The  Dog  Star." 

This  was  beyond  everything.  "  Oh  —  good. 
Did  you  ever  hang  fellows?  " 

"  We  did." 

"Many?" 

"  Some." 

He  had  expected  that  too.  He  felt  that  he  was 
being  too  obvious.  The  man  of  the  world  in  him 
came  into  use.  "  For  treachery,  I  suppose,  and 
that  kind  of  thing?  " 

"  Yes,"    said    Urquhart,    "  and    for    fun,    of 


course." 


Lancelot  nodded  gloomily.  "  I  know,"  he 
said. 

"  So  does  Sir  Matthew,  now,"  he  said. 
"  You've  led  me  into  admissions,  you  know." 

"  You  are  up  to  the  neck,"  said  the  Judge. 
For  a  moment  Lancelot  looked  shrewdly  from  one 
to  the  other.  Was  it  possible  that — ?  No,  no. 
He  settled  all  that.  "  It's  all  right.  He's  a 
guest,  you  see  —  the  same  as  you  are." 


IN  THE  DRAWING-ROOM          37 

Urquhart  was  looking  about  him.  "  I  should 
smoke  a  cigarette,  if  I  had  one,"  he  said. 

Lancelot's  hospitality  was  awake.  "  Come  into 
Father's  room.  He  has  tons."  He  led  the  way 
for  his  two  friends.  They  pierced  the  conserva- 
tory and  entered  another  open  glass  door.  They 
were  now  in  James's  private  room. 

On  the  threshold  Lancelot  paused  to  exhibit 
what  he  said  was  a  jolly  convenient  arrangement. 
These  were  two  bay  windows,  with  two  glass 
doors.  Between  them  stretched  the  conservatory. 
"  Jolly  convenient,"  said  Lancelot.  "  What,  for 
burglars?"  the  Judge  asked.  "Yes,  for  bur- 
glars, and  policemen,  and  Father,  you  know  .  .  . 
I  don't  think,"  said  the  terse  Lancelot.  "  Why 
don't  you  think,  my  friend?  "  says  the  Judge,  and 
Lancelot  became  cautious.  "  Oh,  Father  won't 
come  into  the  drawing-room  if  he  can  possibly  help 
it.  He  says  it's  Mamma's  province  —  but  I  ex- 
pect he's  afraid  of  meeting  women,  I  mean  ladies." 
Urquhart  blinked  at  him.  "  '  Never  be  afraid  of 
any  one  '  will  do  for  you  and  me,"  he  said;  and 
Lancelot  said  deeply,  "  Rather  not."  Then  they 
went  into  the  misogynist's  study.  The  Judge  and 
Urquhart  were  accommodated  with  cigarettes,  and 


38  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

Lancelot  entertained  them.  But  he  did  not  pry 
any  further  into  Urquhart's  past.  A  hint  had 
been  enough. 

Conversation  was  easy.  Lancelot  talked  freely 
of  his  father.  "  Father  will  be  awfully  waxy  with 
me  for  not  going  to  bed.  He  might  easily  come 
in  here  —  hope  he  won't,  all  the  same.  But  do 
you  know  what  he  likes?  He  likes  the  same 
things  to  happen  at  the  same  time  every  day. 
Now  Mamma  and  I  don't  agree  with  him,  you  see. 
So  it's  rather  pink  sometimes." 

"  I  expect  it  is,"  Urquhart  said. 

"  Mamma  of  course  likes  to  be  quiet  a  bit.  She 
doesn't  like  ructions  —  hay,  and  all  that.  So  I 
keep  myself  pretty  close." 

"  Quite  right,"  said  the  Judge. 

"  I  know,"  Lancelot  said,  dreamily,  and  then 
with  great  briskness,  "  Beastly  grind,  all  the 
same."  The  Judge  had  a  fit  of  coughing,  and 
Urquhart  got  up  and  looked  about.  Then  the 
Judge  said  that  he  too  should  catch  it  if  he  didn't 
go  back  and  make  himself  polite. 

Lancelot  led  the  way  back,  but  at  the  entry  of 
the  drawing-room,  where  the  talk  was  buzzing  like 
bees  in  a  lime-tree,  he  put  his  hand  on  the  switch, 
and  showed  the  whites  of  his  eyes.  "  Shall  I  dare 


IN  THE  DRAWING-ROOM          39 

you  to  switch  it  off?  "  he  said  to  Urquhart,  who 
replied,  "  Don't,  or  I  shall  do  it."  Lancelot  and 
he  entered  the  room;  but  before  the  Judge  fol- 
lowed there  was  a  momentary  flicker  of  the  lights. 
Lancelot  nudged  Urquhart.  "  He's  all  right,"  he 
said  out  of  one  corner  of  his  mouth.  "  Oh,  he's 
all  right,"  Urquhart  agreed. 

They  both  went  to  Lucy,  and  Lingen  looked 
mildly  round,  interrupted  in  his  flow.  Lancelot's 
greeting  was,  "  Darling,  you  really  must  go  to 
bed."  He  knew  it.  It  was  so  obvious  —  the 
abhorrent  eyeglass  apart  —  that  he  didn't  even  try 
the  pathetic  "  Only  a  week  before  school." 

He  got  up,  enquiring  of  his  mother  if  she  would 
swear  to  come  up  presently.  "Well,  good-bye," 
he  said  to  Urquhart,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Good  night  to  you,"  said  Urquhart.  "  Any- 
how, you  know  the  worst." 

But  Lancelot  shook  his  cautious  head.  "  No," 
he  said,  "  not  the  worst " — and  then  with  a  deep 
chuckle,  "but  the  best.  Hoho!  Two  wives!" 
With  that  he  went. 

"  Jolly  chap,"  said  Urquhart,  and  sat  himself 
down  by  Lucy,  to  Lingen's  inexpressible  weariness. 
She  warmed  to  his  praise,  but  denied  him,  her  con- 
science at  work.  "  No,  you  mustn't  sit  down.  I 


40  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

shall  take  you  to  talk  to  Lady  Bliss.  You'll  like 
her." 

"  No,  I  shan't,"  he  said.  "  I  can  see  that. 
And  she'll  think  I've  corrupted  her  husband." 
But  he  had  to  go.  Lingen,  also,  she  recruited  for 
service.  He  had  had  a  good  innings  and  found 
himself  able  to  be  enthusiastic  about  Urquhart. 
He  could  bear  to  discuss  him  —  in  possible  rela- 
tions with  himself,  of  course.  Miss  Bacchus  sized 
him  up  aloud,  according  to  her  habit.  u  Jimmy 
Urquhart  —  a  good  man?  Yes,  he's  a  live  man. 
No  flies  on  Jimmy  Urquhart.  Been  everywhere, 
had  a  bit  of  most  things.  Why,  I  suppose  Jimmy 
has  eaten  more  things  than  you've  ever  read 
about." 

"  I've  read  Brillat-Savarin,"  said  Lingen  mod- 
estly. 

"  I  dare  say  Jimmy's  had  a  notch  out  of  him," 
said  Miss  Bacchus.  "  He's  what  I  call  a  blade." 

Lingen  didn't  ask  her  what  she  called  him. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AFTER-TALK 

NEVERTHELESS  the  two  men  talked 
down  to  Knightsbridge  together,  and 
Lingen  did  most  of  the  talking.  He 
chose  to  expand  upon  Macartney,  the  nearest  he 
dared  get  to  the  subject  of  his  thoughts.  "  Now 
Macartney,  you  know,  is  a  very  self-contained 
man.  No  doubt  you've  noticed  how  he  shies  at 
expression.  Chilling  at  times.  Good  in  a  law- 
yer, no  doubt.  You  get  the  idea  of  large  re- 
serves. But  perhaps  as  a  —  well,  as  a  father,  for 
instance  — •  That  bright  boy  of  theirs  now. 
You  may  have  noticed  how  little  there  is  between 
them.  What  do  you  think  of  the  Spartan  parent 
—  in  these  days?  " 

"  Oh,  I  think  Mr.  Lancelot  can  hold  his  own," 
said  Urquhart.  "  He'll  do  —  with  his  mother  to 
help.  I  don't  suppose  the  Spartan  boy  differed 
very  much  from  any  other  kind  of  boy.  Mostly 
they  haven't  time  to  notice  anything;  but  they  are 
sharp  as  razors  when  they  do." 

41 


42  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

An  eager  note  could  be  detected  in  Francis 
Lingen's  voice,  almost  a  crow.  "  Ah,  you've 
noticed  then!  The  mother,  I  mean.  Mrs.  Ma- 
cartney. Now,  there  again,  I  think  our  friend 
overdoes  the  repression  business.  A  sympathetic 
attitude  means  so  much  to  women." 

"  She'll  get  it,  somewhere,"  said  Urquhart 
shortly. 

"  Well,"  said  Lingen,  "  yes,  I  suppose  so.  But 
there  are  the  qualifications  of  the  martyr  in  Mrs. 
Macartney." 

"  Greensickness,"  Urquhart  proposed;  "  is  that 
what  you  mean?  " 

Lingen  stared.  "  It  had  not  occurred  to  me. 
But  now  you  mention  it  —  well,  a  congestion  of 
the  faculties,  eh?" 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  it,"  said  Urqu- 
hart. "  She  seemed  to  me  a  fond  mother,  and 
very  properly.  Do  you  mean  that  Macartney 
neglects  her?  " 

Lingen  was  timid  by  nature.  "  Perhaps  I  went 
further  than  I  should.  I  think  that  he  takes  a 
great  deal  for  granted." 

"  I  always  thought  he  was  a  supercilious  ass," 
said  Urquhart,  "  but  I  didn't  know  that  he  was 
a  damned  fool." 


AFTER-TALK  43 

"  I  say," —  Lingen  was  alarmed.  "  I  say,  I 
hope  I  haven't  made  mischief."  Urquhart  re- 
lieved him.  "  Bless  you,  not  with  me.  I  use  a 
lawyer  for  law.  He's  no  fool  there." 

"  No,  indeed,"  Lingen  said  eagerly.  "  I've 
found  him  most  useful.  In  fact,  I  trust  him  fur- 
ther than  any  man  I  know." 

"  He's  a  good  man,"  Urquhart  said,  "  and  he's 
perfectly  honest.  He'd  sooner  put  you  off  than 
on,  any  day.  That's  very  sound  in  a  lawyer. 
But  if  he  carries  it  into  wedlock  he's  a  damned 
fool,  in  my  opinion." 

They  parted  on  very  good  terms,  Lingen  for  the 
Albany,  Urquhart  elsewhere. 

Meantime  Lancelot,  wriggling  in  his  bed,  was 
discussing  Urquhart.  "  I  say,  Mamma,"  he  said 
—  a  leading  question  — "  do  you  think  Mr.  Urqu- 
hart really  had  two  wives?  " 

"  No,  darling,  I  really  don't.  I  think  he  was 
pulling  our  legs." 

That  was  bad.     "  All  our  legs?  " 

"  All  that  were  pullable.     Certainly  your  two." 

"  Perhaps  he  was."  Lancelot  sighed.  "  Oh, 
what  happened  to  the  Turk?  I  forgot  him,  think- 
ing of  his  wives.  .  .  .  He  said,  *  one  of  my  wives,' 
you  know.  He  might  have  had  six  then.  ...  I 


44  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

say,  perhaps  Mr.  Urquhart  is  a  Turk  in  disguise. 
What  do  you  think?  " 

Lucy  was  sleepy,  and  covered  a  yawn.  "  I 
don't  think,  darling.  I  can't.  I'm  going  to  bed, 
and  you  are  going  to  sleep.  Aren't  you 
now?" 

"  Yes,  of  course,  yes,  of  course.  Did  I  tell  you 
about  the  pirate  part?  His  ship  was  a  brigantine 
.  .  .  called  the  Dog  Star." 

"Oh,  was  it?" 

"  Yes,  it  was.  And  he  used  to  hang  the  chaps, 
sometimes  for  treachery,  and  sometimes  for  fun." 

"How  horrid!"  said  Lucy.     "Good  night." 

"  Oh,  well,"  came  through  the  blankets,  "  of 
course  you  don't  understand,  but  I  do.  Good 
night."  And  he  was  asleep  at  the  turn  of  that 
minute. 

James  had  disappeared  into  his  room,  so  she 
took  herself  off  to  bed.  Surely  he  might  have 
said  a  word  I  It  had  all  gone  off  so  well.  Mr. 
Urquhart  had  been  such  a  success,  and  she  really 
liked  him  very  much.  And  how  the  Judge  had 
taken  to  him!  And  how  Lancelot !  At  the  first 
stair  she  stopped,  in  three  quarters  of  a  mind  to 
go  in  and  screw  a  sentence  out  of  him.  But  no ! 
She  feared  the  angry  blank  of  the  eyeglass. 


AFTER-TALK  45 

Trailing  up  to  bed,  she  thought  that  she  could  date 
the  crumbling  of  her  married  estate  by  the  ascend- 
ency of  the  eyeglass.  And  to  think,  only  to  think, 
that  when  she  was  engaged  to  James  she  used  to 
play  with  it,  to  try  it  in  her  eye,  to  hide  it  from 
him !  Well,  she  had  Lancelot  —  her  darling  boy. 
That  brought  to  mind  that,  a  week  to-night,  she 
would  be  orphaned  of  him.  The  day  she  dreaded 
was  coming  again  —  and  the  blank  weeks  and 
months  which  followed  it. 

True  to  his  ideas  of  "  discipline,"  of  the  value 
of  doing  a  thing  well  for  its  own  sake,  Macartney 
was  dry  about  the  merits  of  the  dinner-party 
when  they  met  at  breakfast.  "Eh?  Oh,  yes,  I 
thought  it  went  quite  reasonably.  Urquhart 
talked  too  much,  I  thought." 

"  My  dear  James," — she  was  nettled — "you 
really  are  — " 

He  looked  up ;  the  eyeglass  hovered  in  his  hand. 
"Plait-il?" 

"  Nothing.  I  only  thought  that  you  were  hard 
to  please." 

"  Really?  Because  I  think  a  man  too  viva- 
cious? " 

Lancelot  said  to  his  porridge-bowl,  over  the 
spoon,  "  I  think  he's  ripping." 


46  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

"  You've  hit  it,"  said  his  father.  "  He'd  rip  up 
anybody." 

Lucy,  piqued  upon  her  tender  part,  was  pro- 
voked into  what  she  always  avoided  if  she  could 
• —  acrimony  at  breakfast. 

"  I  was  hostess,  you  see ;  and  I  must  say  that  the 
more  people  talk  the  more  I  am  obliged  to  them. 
I  suppose  that  you  asked  Mr.  Urquhart  so  that 
he  might  be  amusing.  .  .  ." 

James's  head  lifted  again.  You  could  see  it 
over  the  Morning  Post.  "  I  asked  Urquhart  for 
quite  other  reasons,  you  remember." 

"  I  don't  know  what  they  were,"  said  Lucy. 
"  My  own  reason  was  that  he  should  make  things 
go.  '  A  party  in  a  parlour  .  .  .' '  She  bit  her 
lip.  The  Morning  Post  quivered  but  recovered 
itself. 

"What  was  the  party  in  a  parlour,  Mamma? 
Do  tell  me."  That  was  Lancelot,  with  a  flair  for 
mischief. 

"  It  was  *  all  silent  and  all  damned,'  "  said 
Lucy. 

"Jolly  party,"  said  Lancelot.  "Not  like 
yours,  though."  The  Morning  Post  clacked  like 
a  bellying  sail,  then  bore  forward  over  an  even 


AFTER-TALK  47 

keel.     Lucy,  beckoning  Lancelot,  left  the  break- 
fast-room. 

She  was  ruffled,  and  so  much  so  that  Lancelot 
noticed  it,  and,  being  the  very  soul  of  tact  where 
she  was  concerned,  spoke  neither  of  his  father  nor 
of  Urquhart  all  the  morning.  In  the  afternoon 
the  weather  seemed  more  settled,  and  he  allowed 
himself  more  play.  He  would  like  to  see  Mr. 
Urquhart  on  horseback,  in  a  battle,  he  thought. 
He  expected  he'd  be  like  Henry  of  Navarre. 
Lucy  thought  that  he  might  be.  Would  he  wear 
a  white  plume  though?  Much  head-shaking  over 
this.  "  Bareheaded,  I  bet  you.  He's  just  that 
sort.  Dashing  about !  Absolutely  reckless !  — 
frightfully  dangerous !  —  a  smoking  sword !  — 
going  like  one  o'clock!  Oh,  I  bet  you  what  you 
like."  Then  with  startling  conviction,  "  Father 
doesn't  like  him.  Feels  scored  off,  I  expect.  He 
wasn't  though,  but  he  might  be,  all  the  same  .  .  . 
I  think  Father  always  expects  he's  going  to  be 
scored  off,  don't  you?  At  any  minute."  Lucy 
set  herself  to  combat  this  hazard,  which  was  very 
amusing  and  by  no  means  a  bad  shot.  Poor 
James !  What  a  pity  it  was  that  he  couldn't  let 
himself  like  anybody.  It  was  true  —  it  was  quite 


48  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

true  —  he  was  afraid  of  being  scored  off.  She 
husbanded  a  sigh.  "  Poor  James !  " 

To  pity  James  was  a  new  experience.  She  felt 
all  the  better  for  it,  and  was  able  to  afford  a 
lighter  hand  when  they  met  at  dinner.  It  may 
even  be  that  James  himself  had  thought  the  time 
come  for  a  little  relaxation  of  askesis,  or  he  may 
have  had  something  to  forestall :  he  seldom  spoke 
of  his  affairs  without  design.  At  any  rate,  he  told 
her  that  Francis  Lingen  had  been  with  him,  and 
that  Urquhart  was  likely  to  be  of  use.  "  I've 
written  to  him,  anyhow.  He  will  do  as  he  thinks 
well.  Urquhart  is  a  sharp  man  of  business." 

Lucy  said,  "  He  struck  me  so.  I  thought  that 
he  could  never  have  any  doubt  of  his  own  mind." 

James  wriggled  his  eyeglass,  to  wedge  it  more 
firmly.  "Ah,  you  noticed  that?  Very  acute  of 
you,  Lucy.  We  may  have  a  meeting  before  long 
—  to  arrange  the  whole  thing.  .  .  .  It's  a  lot  of 
money  ...  ten  thousand  pounds.  .  .  .  Your 
Francis  is  an  expensive  young  man  ...  or  let's 
say  ci-devant  jeune  homme." 

14  Why  do  you  call  him  'my'  Francis?"  she 
asked  —  rather  mischievous  than  artless. 

The  eyeglass  dropped  with  a  click  and  had  to 


AFTER-TALK  49 

be  sought.  "  Well,  I  can  hardly  call  him  mine, 
could  I?" 

"  I  don't  see  why  he  should  be  anybody's,"  said 
Lucy,  "  except  his  own." 

"  My  dear  girl,"  said  Macartney,  "  himself  is 
the  last  person  he  belongs  to.  Francis  Lingen 
will  always  belong  to  somebody.  I  must  say  that 
he  has  chosen  very  wisely.  You  do  him  a  great 
deal  of  good." 

"  That's  very  nice  of  you,"  she  said.  "  I  own 
that  I  like  Francis  Lingen.  He's  very  gentle,  not 
too  foolish,  and  good  to  look  at.  You  must  own 
that  he's  extremely  elegant." 

"  Oh,"  said  James,  tossing  up  his  foot,  "  ele- 
gant! He  is  what  his  good  Horace  would  have 
called  *  a  very  pretty  fellow  '  —  and  what  I  call 
'  a  nice  girl.' ' 

"  I'm  sure  he  isn't  worth  so  much  savagery," 
Lucy  said.  "  You  are  like  Ugolino  —  and  poor 
Francis  is  your  fiero  pasto." 

James  instantly  corrected  himself.  "  My  be- 
setting sin,  Lucy.  But  I  must  observe  —  "  He 
applied  his  glazed  eye  to  her  feet  —  "  the  colour 
of  your  stockings,  my  friend.  Ha !  a  tinge  of 
blue,  upon  my  oath!  "  So  it  passed  off,  and  that 


50  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

night  when,  after  his  half-hour  with  the  evening 
paper  in  the  drawing-room,  he  prepared  to  leave 
her,  she  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  and  said  good 
night.  He  took  it,  waved  it;  and  then  stooped 
to  her  offered  cheek  and  pecked  it  delicately. 
The  good  girl  felt  quite  elate.  She  did  so  like 
people  to  be  kind  to  her. 

Half  an  hour  later  yet,  in  her  evening  post  was 
a  letter  from  Urquhart.  He  proposed  for  her- 
self and  Lancelot  to  go  to  the  play  with  him.  The 
play,  Raffles,  "  which  ought  to  meet  the  case,"  he 
said.  He  added,  "  I  don't  include  Macartney  in 
this  jaunt,  partly  because  he  won't  want  to  come, 
but  mainly  because  there  won't  be  room  for  him. 
I  am  taking  a  nephew,  one  Bob  Nugent,  an 
Osborne  boy,  but  very  gracious  to  poor  civilians 
like  Lancelot  and  me."  He  signed  himself, 
"  Yours  to  command." 

Lucy  was  pleased,  and  accepted  promptly;  and 
Lancelot  was  pleased  when  he  heard  of  it.  His 
hackles  were  up  at  the  graciousness  of  the  Os- 
borne kid.  He  honked  over  it  like  a  heron. 
"  Ho  I  I  expect  you'll  tell  him  that  I'm  R.  E.,  or 
going  to  be,"  he  said,  which  meant  that  he  him- 
self certainly  would.  The  event,  with  subsequent 
modifications  on  the  telephone,  proved  to  be  the 


AFTER-TALK  51 

kind  of  evening  that  Lancelot's  philosophy  had 
never  dreamed  of.  They  dined  at  the  Cafe 
Royal,  where  Urquhart  pointed  out  famous  An- 
archists and  their  wives  to  his  young  guests;  they 
went  on  to  the  theatre  in  what  he  called  a  'bus,  but 
Lancelot  saw  to  be  a  mighty  motor  which  rumbled 
like  a  volcano  at  rest,  and  proceeded  by  a  series  of 
violent  rushes,  accompanied  by  explosions  of  a 
very  dangerous  kind.  The  whole  desperate  pas- 
sage, short  as  it  was,  had  the  right  feeling  of  law- 
breaking  about  it.  Policemen  looked  reproach- 
fully at  them  as  they  fled  on.  Lancelot,  as  guest 
of  honour,  sat  in  front,  and  wagged  his  hand  like 
a  semaphore  at  all  times  and  in  all  faces;  he  felt 
part  policeman  and  part  malefactor,  which  was 
just  right.  Then  they  thrilled  at  the  smooth  and 
accomplished  villainy  of  Mr.  Du  Maurier,  lost 
not  one  line  of  his  faultless  clothes,  nor  one 
syllable  of  his  easy  utterance,  "  like  treacle  off  a 
spoon,"  said  Urquhart;  and  then  they  tore  back 
through  the  starry  night  to  Onslow  Square,  leav- 
ing in  their  wake  the  wrecks  and  salvage  of  a 
hundred  frail  taxis;  finally,  from  the  doorstep 
waved  the  Destroyer,  as  the  boys  agreed  she 
should  be  called,  upon  her  ruthless  course,  listened 
to  the  short  and  fierce  bursts  of  her  wrath  until 


52  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

she  was  lost  in  the  great  sea  of  sound;  and  then 
—  replete  to  speechlessness  —  Lancelot  looked  up 
to  his  mother  and  squeezed  her  hand.  She  saw 
that  his  eyes  were  full.  "Well,  darling?"  she 
said.  "You  liked  all  that?"  Lancelot  had  re- 
covered himself.  He  let  go  her  hand.  His 
reply  was  majestic.  "  Not  bad,"  he  said.  Lucy 
immediately  hugged  him. 

Now  that  was  exactly  what  James  would  have 
said,  mutatis  mutandis.  Yet  she  would  not  have 
hugged  James  for  it,  nor  have  loved  him  because 
of  it.  "These  are  our  crosses,  Mr.  Wesley!" 
Reflecting  on  the  jaunt,  she  warmed  to  the  thought 
of  Urquhart,  who  had,  she  felt,  the  knack  of  mak- 
ing you  at  ease.  What  had  he  done,  or  how  done 
it?  Well,  he  seemed  to  be  interested  in  what  you 
said.  He  looked  at  you,  and  waited  for  it;  then 
he  answered,  still  looking  at  you.  Now,  so  many 
men  looked  at  their  toes  when  they  answered  you. 
James  always  did.  Yet  Mr.  Urquhart  did  not 
look  too  much:  there  were  men  who  did  that. 
No,  not  too  much. 


CHAPTER  V 

EROS   STEPS   IN 

WHEN  she  was  told  that  Francis  Lingen 
and  Urquhart  were  coming  on  the  nine- 
teenth, not  to  dine,  Lucy  said,  "  Oh, 
what  a  bore !  "  and  seeing  the  mild  shock  inflicted 
on  the  eyeglass  by  her  remark,  explained  that  it 
was  Lancelot's  day  for  going  to  school,  and  that 
she  was  always  depressed  at  such  times.  The 
eyeglass  dropped,  and  its  master  stretched  out  his 
fine  long  legs,  with  a  great  display  of  black 
speckled  sock.  "  My  dear,  absurd  as  it  may 
seem,  they  are  coming  to  see  Me.  I  know  your 
little  way.  You  shan't  be  disturbed,  if  I  may  be 
indulged  so  far  as  to  contrive  that  the  house  hold 
us  both.  I  had  thought  that  it  would  be  only  civil 
to  bring  them  in  to  you  for  a  minute  or  two,  when 
they've  done.  But  that  is  for  you  to  decide." 

She  was  immediately  penitent.  "  Oh,  do,  of 
course.  I  daresay  they  will  be  useful.  I'm  very 
foolish  to  miss  him  so  much."  The  eyeglass  rue- 
fully stared  at  the  fire. 

"  Urquhart  consents,"  said  James,  "  and  Lin- 
53 


54  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

gen  will  have  his  money.  More  snuff-boxes, 
you'll  find.  But  he's  had  to  work  for  it.  Insured 
his  life  —  and  a  letter  from  Sir  Giles,  which  must 
have  cost  him  something."  Sir  Giles  Lingen  was 
the  uncle  of  Francis,  a  childless  veteran.  He 
turned  his  disk  upon  her  for  a  moment.  "  You 
like  Urquhart?" 

11  Yes,"  Lucy  said,  "  I  do.  I  like  him  —  be- 
cause  he  likes  Lancelot." 

"  Ah,"  said  James,  who  thought  her  weak  where 
the  boy  was  concerned.  He  added,  "  Urquhart 
gets  on  with  children.  He's  a  child  himself." 

"  Why  do  you  call  him  that?  "  she  asked,  with 
a  tinge  of  offence  in  her  voice.  James  could  raise 
the  fine  hairs  at  the  back  of  her  neck  by  a  mere 
inflection. 

He  accepted  battle.  "  Because  he  only  thinks 
of  one  thing  at  a  time.  Because  to  get  what  he 
wants  he'll  sacrifice  every  mortal  thing  —  very 
often  the  thing  itself  which  he's  after." 

But  Lucy  had  heard  all  that  before,  and  wasn't 
impressed.  "  All  men  are  like  that,"  she  said. 
"  I  could  give  you  a  much  better  reason." 

James  and  his  eyeglass  both  smiled.  "  Your 
exquisite  reason?  " 

"  He  is  like  a  child,"  said  Lucy,  "  because  he 


EROS  STEPS  IN  55 

doesn't  know  that  anybody  is  looking  at  him,  and 
wouldn't  care  if  anybody  was." 

James  clasped  his  shin.  "  Not  bad,"  he  said, 
"  not  at  all  bad.  But  the  test  of  that  is  the  length 
to  which  you  can  carry  it.  Would  he  wear  a  pot 
hat  with  a  frock-coat?  —  that's  the  crux." 

It  really  was,  to  James,  as  she  knew  very  well. 
She  perused  the  glowing  fire  with  its  blue  salt 
flames.  Perhaps  to  most  men.  Probably  also  to 
Mr.  Urquhart.  But  she  felt  that  she  would  be 
lowering  a  generous  ideal  if  she  probed  any  fur- 
ther: so  James  was  left  to  his  triumph. 

The  fatal  week  wore  on  apace ;  one  of  the  few 
remaining  days  was  wholly  occupied  with  prepa- 
rations for  the  last.  A  final  jaunt  together  was 
charged  with  a  poignancy  of  unavailing  regrets 
which  made  it  a  harder  trial  than  the  supreme 
moment.  Never,  never,  had  she  thought  this 
bright  and  intense  living  thing  which  she  had 
made,  so  beautiful  and  so  dear.  Nor  did  it  make 
a  straw's  worth  of  difference  to  the  passion  with 
which  she  was  burdened  that  she  felt  precisely  the 
same  thing  every  time  he  left  her.  As  for  Lance- 
lot, he  took  her  obvious  trouble  like  the  gentleman 
he  was.  He  regretted  it,  made  no  attempt  to 


5  6  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

conceal  that,  but  was  full  of  little  comfortable 
suggestions  which  made  her  want  to  cry.  "  You'll 
have  no  more  sapping  upstairs  directly  after  din- 
ner, I  suppose!  "  was  one  of  them;  another  was, 
"  No  more  draughty  adventures  by  the  Round 
Pond."  Lucy  thought  that  she  would  have  stood 
like  Jane  Shore  by  the  Round  Pond,  in  a  blizzard, 
for  another  week  of  him.  But  she  adored  him 
for  his  intention,  and  was  also  braced  by  it.  Her 
sister  Mabel,  who  had  three  boys,  did  not  conceal 
her  satisfaction  at  the  approaching  release  —  but 
Mabel  spent  Christmas  at  Peltry;  and  the  hunt- 
ing was  a  serious  matter. 

The  worst  of  her  troubles  was  over  when  they 
were  at  Victoria.  Lancelot  immediately  became 
one  of  a  herd.  And  so  did  she :  one  of  a  herd  of 
hens  at  the  pond's  edge.  Business  was  business. 
Lancelot  remained  kind  to  her,  but  he  was  inflex- 
ible. This  was  no  place  for  tears.  He  even  dep- 
recated the  last  hug,  the  lingering  of  the  last  kiss. 
He  leaned  nonchalantly  at  the  window,  he  kept 
his  eye  on  her;  she  dared  not  have  a  tear.  The 
train  moved;  he  lifted  one  hand.  "  So  long,"  he 
said,  and  turned  to  his  high  affairs.  She  was 
almost  aghast  to  realise  how  very  small,  how  very 
pale,  how  atomy  he  looked  ~*~  to  confront  a  howl- 


EROS  STEPS  IN  57 

ing  world !  And  so  to  listen  to  the  comfortable 
words  of  Mrs.  Furnivall-Briggs.  "  My  dear, 
they've  no  use  for  us.  The  utmost  we  can  do  is 
to  see  that  they  have  good  food.  And  warm 
socks.  I  am  untiring  about  warm  socks.  That 
is  what  I  am  always  girding  my  committee  about. 
I  tell  the  Vicar,  '  My  dear  sir,  I  will  give  you  their 
souls,  if  you  leave  me  their  soles/  Do  you  see? 
He  is  so  much  amused.  But  he  is  a  very  human 
person.  Except  at  the  altar.  There  he's  every 
inch  the  priest.  Well,  good-bye.  I  thought 
Lancelot  looked  delightful.  He's  taller  than  my 
Geoff.  But  I  must  fly.  I  have  a  meeting  of 
workers  at  four-fifteen.  Bless  me,  I  had  no  idea 
it  was  four  o'clock.  The  parish-room,  Alphonse." 
A  Spartan  mother. 

Lucy  paid  two  calls,  on  people  who  were  out, 
and  indulged  herself  with  shopping  in  Sloane 
Street.  Lancelot  had  recently  remarked  on  her 
gloves.  "  You  have  jolly  thin  hands,"  he  had 
said.  "  It's  having  good  gloves,  I  expect."  The 
memory  of  such  delightful  sayings  encouraged 
her  to  be  extravagant.  She  thought  that  perhaps 
he  would  find  her  ankles  worth  a  moment  —  if 
she  took  pains  with  them.  Anyhow,  he  was 
worth  dressing  for.  James  never  noticed  any- 


58  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

thing  —  or  if  he  did,  his  ambiguity  was  two- 
edged.  "  Extraordinary  hat,"  he  might  say,  and 
drop  his  eyeglass,  which  always  gave  an  air  of 
finality  to  comments  of  the  sort.  But  her  shop- 
ping done,  for  Lancelot's  sake,  life  stretched  be- 
fore her  a  grey  waste.  She  went  back  to  tea,  to 
a  novel,  to  a  weekly  paper  full  of  photographs 
of  other  people's  houses,  dogs,  children  and 
motor-cars.  It  was  dark,  she  was  bored  as  well 
as  child-sick,  dissatisfied  with  herself  as  well  as 
heart-hungry.  She  must  get  herself  something  to 
do,  she  said.  Who  was  the  Vicar  of  Onslow 
Square?  She  didn't  know.  Somehow,  religion, 
to  her,  had  always  seemed  such  a  very  private 
affair.  Not  a  soul  must  be  near  her  when  she 
said  her  prayers  —  except  Lancelot,  of  course. 
When  he  was  at  home  she  always  said  them  while 
he  said  his.  Last  night  —  ah,  she  had  not  been 
able  to  say  anything  last  night.  All  her  faculties 
had  been  bent  to  watching  him  at  it.  Was  it  brav- 
ery in  him  —  or  insensibility?  She  remembered 
Mr.  Urquhart  had  talked  about  it.  "  All  boys 
are  born  stoics,"  he  said,  "  and  all  girls  Epicu- 
reans. That's  the  instinct.  They  change  places 
when  they  grow  up."  Was  James  an  Epicurean? 
It  was  six  o'clock.  They  would  be  at  their 


EROS  STEPS  IN  59 

meeting  in  James's  room.  Surely  they  wouldn't 
want  tea?  Apparently  Crewdson  thought  that 
they  might,  otherwise  —  well,  she  would  leave  it 
to  Crewdson.  James  never  seemed  to  care  for 
anything  done  by  anybody  except  Crewdson. 
Sometimes  he  seemed  to  resent  it.  "  Have  we  no 
servants  then?"  the  eyeglass  seemed  to  inquire. 
She  wondered  if  James  knew  for  how  much  his 
eyeglass  was  answerable.  How  could  one  like  to 
be  kissed,  with  that  glaring  disk  coming  nearer 
and  nearer?  And  if  it  dropped  just  at  the  mo- 
ment —  well,  it  seemed  simply  to  change  all  one's 
feelings.  Oh,  to  have  her  arms  round  Lance- 
lot's salient  young  body,  and  hear  him  murmur, 
"  Oh,  I  say!  "  as  she  kissed  his  neck!  .  .  . 

At  this  moment,  being  very  near  to  tears,  the 
light  was  switched  off.  She  seemed  to  be  drown- 
ing in  dark.  That  was  a  favourite  trick  of 
Lancelot's,  who  had  no  business,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  in  his  father's  room.  It  gave  her  a  moment 
of  tender  joy,  and  for  another  she  played  with 
the  thought  of  him,  tiptoeing  towards  her.  Sud- 
denly, all  in  the  dark,  she  felt  a  man's  arms  about 
her,  and  a  man's  lips  upon  hers.  To  wild  alarm 
succeeded  warm  gratitude.  Lucy  sobbed  ever 
so  lightly;  her  head  fell  back  before  the  ardent 


60  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

advance;  her  eyes  closed.  With  parted  lips  she 
drank  deep  of  a  new  consolation:  her  heart 
drummed  a  tune  to  which,  as  it  seemed,  her  wings 
throbbed  the  answer.  The  kiss  was  a  long  one 
—  perhaps  a  full  thirty  seconds  —  but  she  was  re- 
leased all  too  soon.  He  left  her  as  he  had  come, 
on  silent  feet.  The  light  was  turned  up;  every- 
thing looked  as  it  had  been,  but  everything  was 
not.  She  was  not.  She  found  herself  an 
Ariadne,  in  a  drawing-room,  still  lax  from 
Theseus'  arms.  Yes,  but  Theseus  was  next  door, 
and  would  come  back  to  her. 

To  say  that  she  was  touched  is  to  say  little. 
She  was  more  elated  than  touched,  and  more  in- 
terested than  either.  How  utterly  romantic,  how 
perfectly  sweet,  how  thoughtful,  how  ardent  of 
James !  James,  of  all  people  in  the  world !  Her 
husband,  of  course :  but  who  knew  better  than  she 
what  that  office  had  implied  —  and  who  less  than 
she  what  it  must  have  hidden?  Really,  was  it 
true  ?  Could  it  be  true  ? 

For  some  time  she  sat  luxurious  where  she  had 
been  left,  gloating  (the  word  is  fairly  used)  over 
this  new  treasure.  But  then  she  jumped  up  and 
looked  at  herself  in  the  glass,  curiously,  quizzingly, 
and  even  perhaps  shamefaced.  Next  she  laughed, 


EROS  STEPS  IN  61 

richly  and  from  a  full  heart.  "  My  dear  girl, 
it's  not  hard  to  see  what  has  happened  to  you. 
You've  been  — "  Not  even  in  her  thoughts  did 
she  care  to  end  the  sentence.  But  those  shining 
dark  eyes,  that  air  of  floating,  of  winged  feet  — 
"  Ha,  my  dear,  upon  my  word !  At  thirty-one, 
my  child.  Really,  it  becomes  you  uncommonly." 

She  found  herself  now  walking  swiftly  up  and 
down  the  room,  clasping  and  unclasping  her  hands. 
To  think  that  James  —  the  last  man  in  the  world 
—  had  kept  this  up  his  coat-sleeve  for  years  — 
and  at  last  — !  And  how  like  the  dear  thing  to 
turn  the  light  out!  To  save  his  own  face,  of 
course,  for  he  must  have  known,  even  he  must 
have  known,  that  she  wouldn't  have  cared.  She 
would  have  liked  the  light  —  to  see  his  eyes ! 
There  had  been  no  eyeglass  this  time,  anyhow. 
But  that  was  it.  That  was  a  man's  romance.  In 
Cupid  and  Psyche,  it  had  been  Psyche  who  had 
wanted  to  know,  to  see.  Women  were  like  that. 
Such  realists.  And,  as  Psyche  was,  they  were  al- 
ways sorry  for  it  afterwards.  Well,  bless  him, 
he  should  love  her  in  the  dark,  or  how  he  pleased. 

She  stopped  again  —  again  in  front  of  the 
glass.  What  had  he  seen  —  what  new  thing  had 
he  seen  to  make  him  —  want  to  kiss  her  like  that? 


62  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

Was  she  pretty?  She  supposed  that  she  really 
was.  She  fingered  the  crinkled  whiteness  at  her 
neck;  touched  herself  here  and  there;  turned  her 
head  sideways,  and  patted  her  hair,  lifting  her 
chin.  Now,  was  there  anything  she  could  put  on 

—  something    she    could    put    in  —  for    dinner? 
Her  thoughts  were  now  turned  to  serious  matters 

—  this   and   that   possibility   flashed   across   her 
mind.     They  were  serious  matters,  because  James 
had  made  them  so  by  his  most  extraordinary,  most 
romantic,     most     beautiful     action.     Then     she 
stretched  out  her  hands,  the  palms  upward,  and 
sighed  out  her  heart.     "  Oh,  what  a  load  is  light- 
ened.    Oh,  days  to  come !  " 

Voices  in  the  conservatory  suddenly  made  her 
heart  beat  violently.  He  was  coming!  She 
heard  James  say  —  oh,  the  rogue  1  — "  Yes,  it's 
rather  nice.  We  put  it  up  directly  we  came. 
Lucy's  idea.  Mind  the  little  step  at  the  door, 
though."  Urquhart,  Francis  Lingen  were  in  the 
room  —  Francis'  topknot  stood  up  like  a  bottle- 
brush.  Then  came  the  hero  of  the  evening, 
James,  the  unknown  Eros.  She  beamed  into  the 
shining  disk.  Sweet  old  spyglass,  she  would  never 
abuse  it  again.  All  the  same,  he  had  pocketed  it 


EROS  STEPS  IN  63 

for  the  occasion  the  last  time  he  had  been  in  the 
room ! 

Urquhart  refused  tea.  "  Tea  at  seven  o'clock 
at  night!"  All  her  eyes  were  for  James,  who 
had  sought  her  in  love  and  given  her  heart  again. 
The  eyeglass  expressed  its  horror  of  tea  at  seven 
o'clock.  "  God  forbid,"  said  James,  dear,  ridic- 
ulous creature. 

Mr.  Urquhart  talked  at  once  of  Lancelot. 
"  Well,  he's  off  with  all  the  rest  of  them.  They 
love  it,  you  know.  It's  movement  —  it's  towards 
the  unknown,  the  not  impossible  —  the  '  anything 
might  turn  up  at  any  minute.'  Now,  we  don't 
feel  so  sure  about  the  minutes,  do  we?  " 

Oh,  don't  we  though?  She  laughed  and  tilted 
her  chin.  '  We  feel,  anyhow,  for  their  minutes, 
bless  them,"  she  said,  and  Urquhart  looked  at  her 
with  narrowed  eyes. 

"  *  He  for  God  only,  she  for  God  in  him/  "  he 
said.  He  added,  "  I  like  that  boy  of  yours.  I 
think  he  understands  me  " —  and  pleased  her. 

There  were  a  few  minutes'  desultory  talk,  in 
the  course  of  which  Lucy  gravitated  towards 
James,  and  finally  put  her  hand  in  his  arm.  You 
should  have  seen  the  effect  of  this  simple  caress 


64  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

upon  the  eyeglass.  Like  a  wounded  snake  it 
lifted  its  head  to  ask,  "  Who  has  struck  me?  "  It 
wavered  and  wagged.  But  Lucy  was  glass-proof 
now. 

Urquhart  said  that  he  was  going  away  shortly, 
at  least  he  supposed  he  should.  A  man  he  knew 
wanted  to  try  a  new  motor.  They  were  to  rush 
down  to  Biarritz,  and  possibly  over  the  frontier  to 
Pampluna.  But  nothing  was  arranged.  Here  he 
looked  scrutinising  and  half  quizzical  at  her. 
"  Are  you  adventurously  inclined  ?  Will  you  try 
my  monster?  It's  a  dragon." 

She  was  very  adventurously  inclined  —  as 
James  might  know !  but  not  with  a  Mr.  Urquhart 
necessarily:  therefore  she  hesitated.  "Oh,  I 
don't  really  know — "  Urquhart  laughed.  "Be 
bold  —  be  bold  —  be  not  too  bold.  Well,  there 
it  is.  I  start  for  the  Newmarket  road  at  eleven 
to-morrow  —  but  I'll  fetch  you  for  twopence. 
Ask  him."  He  jerked  his  head  forward  towards 
James,  on  whose  arm  her  hand  rested.  Lucy 
looked  up  at  her  romantic  lord  —  a  look  which 
might  have  made  a  man  proud.  But  James  may 
have  been  proud  enough  already.  At  any  rate, 
he  didn't  see  her  look,  but  was  genial  to  Urquhart 


EROS  STEPS  IN  65 

—  over  whom  he  considered  that  he  had  tri- 
umphed in  the  library. 

"  Sooner  her  than  me,"  he  said.  "  I  know  that 
she  likes  it  and  so  advise  her  to  go.  But  I  should 
die  a  thousand  deaths." 

"  She  won't,"  said  Urquhart;  and  then  to  Lucy, 
"Well,  ma'am?" 

Her  eyes  assented  before  she  did.  "  Very 
well,  I'll  come.  I  dare  say  it  will  be  delightful." 

"  Oh,  it  will,"  he  said. 

Still  he  rambled  on  —  plain,  grumbling,  easy, 
familiar  talk,  while  Lucy  fumed  and  fidgeted  to  be 
alone  with  her  joy  and  pride.  "  Your  handsome 
sister  has  asked  me  to  hunt  in  Essex.  Don't  like 
hunting,  but  I  do  like  her  —  and  there's  a  great 
deal  waiting  to  be  done  at  Martley.  I  don't 
know.  We'll  talk  about  it  to-morrow."  Then 
he  asked  her,  "  Would  she  come  and  look  at  Mart- 
ley?  "  It  seemed  she  had  half  promised. 

She  said,  "  Oh,  yes,  of  course."  Nothing  of 
that  kind  seemed  very  important.  But  James 
here  looked  down  at  her,  which  made  it  different. 
"  We  might  go  at  Whitsuntide,"  he  said. 

She  looked  deeply  up  —  deeply  into  him,  so  to 
speak.  "  Very  well,  we  will.  If  you'll  come." 


66  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

"Oh,  he'll  come,"  Urquhart  said;  and  James, 
"  I  should  like  it."  So  that  was  settled.  Heav- 
ens, how  she  wished  these  people  would  go.  She 
could  see  that  Francis  Lingen  wanted  to  be  asked 
to  stay  to  dine,  but  she  didn't  mean  to  have  that. 
So  when  Urquhart  held  out  his  hand  with  a  blunt 
"  Good  night  to  you,"  she  let  hers  hover  about 
Francis  as  if  his  was  waiting  for  it  —  which  it 
wasn't,  but  had  to  be.  "  Oh,  good  night,"  said 
the  embarrassed  exquisite,  and  forgot  to  be  tender. 

James  picked  up  the  evening  paper  and  was 
flickering  his  eye  over  the  leading  articles,  like  a 
searchlight.  Lucy,  for  her  part,  hovered  quick- 
footed  in  his  neighbourhood.  This  was  her  hour 
of  triumph,  and  she  played  with  it.  She  peeped 
at  the  paper  over  his  shoulder  till  he  said, 
"  Please,"  and  moved  it.  Her  fingers  itched  to 
touch  his  hair,  but  very  prudently  refrained.  She 
was  too  restless  to  settle  to  anything,  and  too 
happy  to  wish  it.  If  she  had  been  a  singing-bird 
she  would  have  trilled  to  the  piano;  but  she  had 
not  a  note  of  music.  The  dressing-gong  gave  her 
direction.  There  was  plenty  to  be  done.  "  The 
gong!  I'm  going  to  make  myself  smart,  James. 
Quite  smart.  Are  you  coming  up  ?  " 

James    had    the    paper    open    in    the    middle. 


EROS  STEPS  IN  67 

"Eh?  Oh,  there's  lots  of  time  —  run  away. 
I'm  rather  busy." 

"  You're  not  a  bit  busy.  But  I'll  go."  And 
she  went  with  hardly  a  perceptible  hang-back  at 
the  door.  Upstairs  she  rejected  her  usual  choice 
with  a  curled  lip.  "  No,  no,  too  stuffy."  "  Oh, 
Smithers,  I  couldn't.  It  makes  me  look  a  hun- 
dred." No  doubt  she  was  absurd;  but  she  had 
been  starved.  Such  a  thing  as  this  had  not  hap- 
pened to  her  since  her  days  of  betrothal,  and  then 
but  seldom.  When  she  had  satisfied  herself  she 
had  a  panic.  Suppose  he  said,  "  Comic  Opera !  " 

He  said  nothing  at  all.  He  was  in  a  thoughtful 
mood,  and  talked  mostly  of  Urquhart's  proposal 
for  Whitsuntide.  "  I  believe  it's  rather  remark- 
able. Quite  a  place  to  be  seen.  Jimmy  does 
things  well,  you  know.  He's  really  a  rich 
man." 

"As  rich  as  you?"  Lucy  asked,  not  at  all  in- 
terested in  Urquhart  just  now. 

The  eyeglass  was  pained.  "My  dear  soul! 
You  don't  know  what  you're  saying!"  She 
quizzed  him  with  a  saucy  look.  "  I  didn't  say 
anything,  dear.  I  asked  something." 

If  eyeglasses  shiver,  so  did  James's.  ''  WTell, 
well  —  you  quibble.  I  dare  say  Urquhart  has 


68  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

fifteen  thousand  a  year,  and  even  you  will  know 
that  I  haven't  half  as  much." 

She  quenched  her  eyes,  and  looked  meek. 
"  No,  dear,  I  know.  All  right,  he's  quite  rich. 
Now  what  does  he  do  with  it?  " 

"Do  with  it?"  James  tilted  his  head  and 
scratched  his  neck  vigorously,  but  not  elegantly. 
"  Very  often  nothing  at  all.  There  will  be  years 
when  he  won't  spend  a  hundred  above  his  running 
expenses.  Then  he'll  get  a  kind  of  maggot  in 
the  brain,  and  squander  every  sixpence  he  can  lay 
hands  on.  Or  he  may  see  reason  good,  and  drop 
ten  thousand  in  a  lap  like  Lingen's.  Why  does 
he  do  it?  God  knows,  Who  made  him.  He's 
made  like  that." 

Lucy  said  it  was  very  interesting,  but  only  be- 
cause she  thought  James  would  be  pleased. 

Then  she  remembered,  with  a  pang  of  doubt, 
that  she  was  to  be  driven  by  this  wild  man  to- 
morrow. But  James  —  would  he — ?  He  had 
never  been  really  jealous,  and  just  now  she  didn't 
suppose  he  could  possibly  be  so ;  but  you  can't  tell 
with  men.  So  she  said,  "  James  dear,"  very 
softly,  and  he  looked  over  the  table  at  her.  "  If 
you  don't  think  it  —  sensible,  I  could  easily  tele- 
phone." 


EROS  STEPS  IN  69 

"Eh?  What  about?  —  to  whom? — 'how? 
I  don't  follow  you." 

"  I  mean  to  Mr.  Urquhart,  about  his  motor  to- 
morrow. I  don't  care  about  it  in  the  least.  In 
fact—" 

"Oh,"  said  James,  "the  motor?  Ah,  I  had 
forgotten.  Oh,  I  think  you  might  go.  Urqu- 
hart's  been  very  reasonable  about  this  business  of 
Lingen's.  I  had  a  little  trouble,  of  course  —  it's 
a  lot  of  money,  even  for  him.  Oh,  yes,  I  should 
go  if  I  were  you.  Why,  he  might  want  me  to  go, 
you  know  —  which  would  bore  me  to  extinction. 
But  I  know  you  like  that  sort  of  thing."  He 
nodded  at  her.  "  Yes,  I  should  go." 

She  pouted,  and  showed  storm  in  her  eyes  — 
all  for  his  benefit.  But  he  declined  benefit.  A 
strange,  dear,  bleak  soul. 

"  Very  well.  If  it  saves  you  anything,  I'll  do 
it,"  she  said.  James  was  gratified;  as  he  was  also 
by  the  peeling  of  walnuts  and  service  of  them  in 
a  sherry  glass,  which  she  briskly  performed,  as  if 
she  liked  it.  Further  than  that  she  was  too  shy 
to  go ;  but  in  the  drawing-room,  before  it  might  be 
too  late,  she  was  unable  to  forbear  her  new  tender- 
ness. 

She  stood  behind  him;  her  hand  fell  upon  his 


70  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

shoulder,  and  rested  there,  like  a  leaf.  He  could 
not  but  be  conscious  of  it  —  he  was  very  conscious 
of  it,  and  accepted  it,  as  a  tribute.  Such  a  tribute 
was  gratifying.  Lucy  was  a  charming  woman. 
She  did  pretty  things  in  a  pretty  way,  as  a  man's 
wife  should,  but  too  seldom  did.  How  many 
men's  wives  —  after  fourteen  years  of  it  —  would 
stand  as  she  was  standing  now?  No  —  the  luck 
held.  He  had  a  tradition  of  Success  —  success 
without  visible  effort.  The  luck  held!  Like  a 
steady  wind,  filling  a  sail. 

Discipline,  however;  gentle  but  firm!  He 
went  on  reading,  but  said,  most  kindly,  "  Well, 
Luce,  well — "  adding,  on  an  afterthought,  "  How 
can  I  serve  you?  " 

Her  eyes  were  luminous,  dilating  her  gentle 
mood,  downcast  towards  his  smooth  black  hair. 
She  sighed,  "  Serve  me?  Oh,  you  serve  me  well. 
I'm  happy  just  now  —  that's  all." 

"  Not  fretting  after  the  boy?  " 

"  No,    no.     Not    now.     Bless    him,    all    the 


same." 


"  To  be  sure."  Whereon,  at  a  closer  touch  of 
her  hand,  he  looked  comically  up.  Her  head 
moved,  ever  so  slightly,  towards  him.  He 
dropped  his  eyeglass  with  a  smart  click  and  kissed 


EROS  STEPS  IN  71 

her  cheek.  She  shivered,  and  started  back.  A 
blank  dismay  fell  upon  her;  her  heart  seemed  to 
stop.  Good  Heavens !  Not  so,  not  at  all  so,  had 
James  kissed  her  in  the  dark. 

There  wasn't  a  doubt  about  that  —  not  the 
shade  of  a  doubt.  Here  had  been  a  brush  on  the 
cheek;  here  the  cold  point  of  his  nose  had  pecked 
a  little  above.  She  had  felt  that  distinctly,  more 
distinctly  than  the  touch  of  his  lips.  Whereas 
that  other,  that  full-charged  message  of  hope  and 
promise  —  oh,  that  had  been  put  upon  her  mouth, 
soft  and  close,  and  long.  She  recalled  how  her 
head  had  fallen  back  and  back,  how  her  laden 
heart  had  sighed,  how  she  had  been  touched,  com- 
forted, contented.  Good  God,  how  strange  men 
were !  How  entirely  outside  her  philosophy ! 

She  strayed  about  her  drawing-room,  touching 
things  here  and  there,  while  he  complacently  fin- 
gered his  Punch,  flacking  over  the  leaves  with 
brisk  slaps  of  the  hand.  At  this  moment  he  was 
as  comfortably-minded  a  householder  as  any  in 
London,  engaged  solely  in  digestion,  at  peace  at 
home  and  abroad,  so  unconscious  of  the  fretting, 
straining,  passionate  lost  soul  in  the  room  with 
him,  hovering,  flicking  about  it  like  a  white  moth, 
as  to  be  supremely  ridiculous  —  to  any  one  but 


72  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

Lucy.  It  is  difficult  to  hit  off  her  state  of  mind  in 
a  word,  or  in  two.  She  was  fretted;  yes,  but  she 
was  provoked  too.  She  was  provoked,  but  she 
was  incredulous.  It  could  not  continue ;  it  was  too 
much.  Men  were  not  made  so.  And  yet  —  and 
yet  —  James  was  a  possible  Eros,  an  Eros  (bless 
him!)  with  an  eyeglass:  and  Eros  loved  in  the 
dark. 

She  comforted  herself  with  this  thought,  which 
seemed  to  her  a  bright  solution  of  the  puzzle,  and 
saw  James  rise  and  stretch  his  length  without 
mutiny.  She  received  the  taps  on  the  cheek  of  his 
rolled  Punch,  allowed,  nay,  procured,  another 
chilly  peck,  with  no  pouting  lips,  no  reproachful 
eyes.  Then  came  a  jar,  and  her  puzzlement  re- 
newed. "Shall  you  be  late?"  "  Oh,  my  dear 
soul,  how  can  I  possibly  say?  I  brought  papers 
home  with  me  —  and  you  know  what  that  means ! 
It's  an  interesting  case.  We  have  Merridew  for 
us.  I  am  settling  the  brief."  Alas,  for  her. 
The  infatuate  even  stayed  to  detail  points  of  the 
cause.  Much,  it  appeared,  depended  upon  the 
Chancellor  of  the  diocese:  a  very  shaky  witness. 
He  had  a  passion  for  qualification,  and  might  tie 
himself  into  as  many  knots  as  an  eel  on  a  night- 
line.  Oh,  might  he  indeed?  And  this,  this  was 
in  the  scales  against  her  pride  and  joy !  She  was 


EROS  STEPS  IN  73 

left  —  alone  on  Naxos  now  —  while  James  went 
sharply  to  his  papers. 

There  I  must  leave  her,  till  the  hour  when  she 
could  bear  the  room  no  more.  She  had  fought 
with  beasts  there,  and  had  prevailed.  Yet  un- 
reason (as  she  had  made  herself  call  it)  lifted  a 
bruised  head  at  the  last.  Papers!  Papers,  after 
such  a  kiss !  Oh,  the  folly  of  the  wise !  Caught 
up  she  knew  not  whence,  harboured  in  the  mind 
she  knew  not  how,  the  bitter  words  of  an  old 
Scots  song  tasted  salt  upon  her  lips : 

There  dwelt  a  man  into  the  West, 
And  O  gin  he  was  cruel; 
For  on  his  bridal  night  at  e'en 
He  up  and  grat  for  gruel. 

They  brought  him  in  a  gude  sheepshead, 
A  bason  and  a  towel. 
"  Gar  take  thae  whimwhams  far  frae  me, 
I  winna  want  my  gruel !  " 

Standing  in  the  hall  while  these  words  were 
ringing  in  her  head,  she  stayed  after  they  were 
done,  a  rueful  figure  of  indecision.  Instinct 
fought  instinct,  and  the  acquired  beat  down  the 
innate.  She  regarded  the  shut  door,  with  wise 
and  tender  eyes,  without  reproach;  then  bent  her 
head  and  went  swiftly  upstairs. 


CHAPTER  VI 

A   LEAP   OUTWARDS 

SHE  arose,  a  disillusioned  bride,  with  scarcely 
spirit  enough  to  cling  to  hope,  and  with  less 
taste  for  Urquhart' s  motor  than  she  had 
ever  had  for  any  duller  task-work.  Nothing  in 
the  house  tended  to  her  comfort.  James  was 
preoccupied  and  speechless;  the  coffee  was  wrong, 
the  letters  late  and  stupid.  She  felt  herself  at 
cross-purposes  with  her  foolish  little  world.  If 
James  had  resought  her  love  overnight,  it  had 
been  a  passing  whim.  She  told  herself  that  love 
so  desired  was  almost  an  insult. 

Nevertheless  at  eleven  o'clock  the  motor  was 
there,  and  Urquhart  in  the  hall  held  out  his  hand. 
"  She  can  sprint,"  he  said;  "  so  much  I've  learned 
already.  I  think  you'll  be  amused." 

Lucy  hoped  so.  She  owned  herself  very  dull 
that  morning.  Well,  said  Urquhart,  he  could 
promise  her  that  she  should  not  be  that.  She 
might  cry  for  mercy,  he  told  her,  or  stifle  screams ; 
but  she  wouldn't  stifle  yawns.  "  Macartney,"  he 

74 


A  LEAP  OUTWARDS  75 

said,  "  would  sooner  see  himself  led  out  by  a  firing- 
party  than  in  such  an  engine  as  I  have  out  there." 
She  smiled  at  her  memory.  "  James  is  not  of  the 
adventurous,"  she  said  —  but  wasn't  he  ?  "  Shall 
I  be  cold?" 

"  Put  on  everything  you  have,"  he  bade  her, 
"  and  then  everything  else.  She  can  do  sixty." 

"  You  are  trying  to  terrify  me,"  she  said,  "  but 
you  won't  succeed.  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  feel 
that  you  can  drive.  I  think  I  have  caught  Lance- 
lot's complaint." 

"  Perhaps  so.  I  know  that  I  impose  upon  the 
young  and  insipient." 

"  And  which  am  I,  pray?  " 

He  looked  at  her.     "  Don't  try  me  too  far." 

She  came  forth  finally  to  see  Crewdson  and  her 
own  chauffeur  grouped  with  Urquhart.  The  bon- 
net was  open;  shining  coils,  mighty  cylinders  were 
in  view,  and  a  great  copper  feed-pipe  like  a  bur- 
nished boa-constrictor.  The  chauffeur,  a  beady- 
eyed  Swiss,  stared  approval;  Crewdson,  rubbing 
his  chin,  offered  a  deft  blend  of  the  deferential 
butler  and  the  wary  man  of  the  world.  She  was 
tucked  in;  the  Swiss  started  the  monster;  they 
were  off  with  a  bound. 

They  slashed  along  Knightsbridge,  won  Picca- 


76  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

dilly  Circus  by  a  series  of  short  rushes;  avoided 
the  City,  and  further  East  found  a  broad  road  and 
slow  traffic.  Soon  they  were  in  the  semi-urban 
fringe,  among  villa  gardens,  over-glazed  public- 
houses,  pollarded  trees  and  country  glimpses  in  be- 
tween. There  was  floating  ice  on  the  ponds,  a 
violet  rime  traversed  with  dun  wheelmarks  in  the 
shady  parts  of  the  way.  After  that  a  smooth 
white  road,  deep  green  fields,  much  frozen  water, 
ducks  looking  strangely  yellow,  and  the  low  blue 
hills  of  Essex. 

Urquhart  was  a  sensitive  driver;  she  noticed 
that.  The  farseeing  eye  was  instantly  known  in 
the  controlling  foot.  He  used  very  little  brake; 
when  he  pushed  his  car  there  was  no  mark  upon 
him  of  urgency.  Success  without  effort!  The 
Gospel  of  James!  Urquhart  accepted  it  as  a 
commonplace,  and  sought  his  gospel  elsewhere. 

He  began  to  talk  without  any  palpable  be- 
ginning, and  drifted  into  reminiscence.  "I  re- 
member being  run  away  with  by  a  mule  train  in 
Ronda  .  .  .  the  first  I  had  ever  handled.  They 
got  out  of  hand  —  it  was  a  nasty  gorge  with  a 
bend  in  it  where  you  turn  on  to  the  bridge.  I 
got  round  that  with  a  well-directed  stone  which 
caught  the  off-side  leader  exactly  at  the  root  of  his 


A  LEAP  OUTWARDS  77 

wicked  ear.  He  had  only  one  ear,  so  you  couldn't 
mistake  it.  He  ducked  his  head  and  up  with  his 
heels.  He  went  over,  and  the  next  pair  on  top  of 
him.  We  pulled  up,  not  much  the  worse.  Well, 
the  point  of  that  story  is  that  the  pace  of  that 
old  coach  and  six  mokes,  I  assure  you,  has  always 
seemed  to  me  faster  than  any  motor  I've  ever 
driven.  It  was  nothing  to  be  compared  with  it,  of 
course;  but  the  effort  of  those  six  mad  animals, 
the  elan  of  the  thing,  the  rumbling  and  sway- 
ing about,  heeling  over  that  infernal  gorge  of 
stone  — !  You  can't  conceive  the  whirl  and  rush 
of  it.  Now  we're  doing  fifty,  yet  you  don't  know 
it.  Wind-screen:  yes,  that's  very  much;  but  the 
concealment  of  effort  is  more." 

"  You've  had  a  life  of  adventure,"  she  said. 
"  Lancelot  may  have  been  right." 

"  He  wasn't  far  wrong,"  Urquhart  said.  "  As 
a  fact,  I  have  never  been  a  pirate ;  but  I  have  smug- 
gled tobacco  in  the  Black  Sea,  and  that's  as  near 
as  you  need  go.  I  excuse  myself  by  saying  that 
it  was  a  long  time  ago  —  twenty  years  I  dare  say; 
that  I  was  young  at  the  time;  that  I  was  very  hard 
up,  and  that  I  liked  the  fun.  Lovely  country,  you 
know,  that  strip  of  shore.  You  never  saw  such 
oleanders  in  your  life.  And  sand  like  crumbled 


78  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

crystal.  We  used  to  land  the  stuff  at  midnight, 
up  to  our  armpits  in  water  sometimes;  and  a  man 
would  stand  up  afterwards  shining  with  phos- 
phorus, like  a  golden  statue.  Romantic!  No 
poet  could  relate  it.  They  used  to  cross  and  re- 
cross  in  the  starlight  —  all  the  gleaming  figures. 
Like  a  ballet  done  for  a  Sultan  in  the  Arabian 
Nights.  I  was  at  that  for  a  couple  of  years,  and 
then  the  gunboats  got  too  sharp  for  us  and  the 
game  didn't  pay." 

She  had  forgotten  her  spleen.  Her  eyes  were 
wide  at  the  enlarging  landscape.  "  And  what  did 
you  do  next  —  or  what  had  you  done  before? 
Tell  me  anything." 

"  I  really  don't  know  what  I  did  before.  I 
went  out  to  the  Chersonese  from  Naples.  I  re- 
member that  well.  I  had  been  knocking  about 
Vesuvius  for  a  bit,  keeping  very  bad  company, 
which,  nevertheless,  behaved  very  well  to  me. 
But  finally  there  was  a  row  with  knives,  which 
rather  sickened  me  of  the  Vesuvians;  so  I  shipped 
for  Constantinople  and  fell  in  with  a  very  nice 
old  chap  on  board.  He  took  me  on  at  his  con- 
traband job.  I  didn't  get  very  much  money,  but 
I  got  some,  and  saw  a  deal  of  life.  When  it  was 


A  LEAP  OUTWARDS  79 

over  I  went  to  Greece.  I  like  the  Greeks.  They 
are  a  fine  people." 

"What  did  you  do  in  Greece?"  she  insisted, 
not  interested  in  the  fineness  of  the  people. 

"  Blasting,  first,"  he  said.  "  They  were  mak- 
ing the  railway  from  Larissa  through  Tempe. 
That  was  a  dangerous  job,  because  the  rock  breaks 
so  queerly.  You  never  know  when  it  has  finished. 
I  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  it  in  South  America,  so 
I  butted  in,  and  was  taken  on.  Then  I  did  some 
mining  at  Lavrion,  and  captained  a  steamer  that 
carried  mails  among  the  islands.  That  was  the 
best  time  I  had.  You  see,  I  like  responsibility, 
and  I  got  it.  Everything  else  was  tame  —  out 
there,  I  mean.  .  .  . 

"  I  got  into  Government  service  at  Corfu  and 
stopped  there  six  years  or  more  ...  I  was  all 
sorts  of  things  —  lighthouse-keeper,  inspector  of 
marine  works,  harbour-master  .  .  .  And  then  my 
wicked  old  father  (I  must  tell  you  about  him  some 
day.  You  could  write  a  book  about  him)  up  and 
died  —  in  his  bed  of  all  places  in  the  world,  and 
left  me  a  good  deal  of  money.  That  was  the  ruin 
of  me.  I  really  might  have  done  something  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  that.  Strange  thing!  He  turned 


8o  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

me  out  of  the  house  in  a  rage  one  day,  and  had 
neither  seen  me  nor  written  me  a  letter  from  my 
seventeenth  to  my  thirtieth  birthday,  when  he 
died  —  or  thereabouts.  But  at  the  last,  when  he 
was  on  his  bed  of  death,  he  rolled  himself  over 
and  said  to  the  priest,  '  There's  Jimmy  out  at  his 
devilry  among  the  haythen  Turks,'  he  says.  '  Be- 
gob,  that  was  a  fine  boy,  and  I'll  leave  him  a  plum.' 
And  so  he  did.  I  wish  he  hadn't.  I  was  making 
my  hundred  and  fifty  in  Corfu  and  was  the  richest 
man  in  the  place.  And  I  liked  the  life." 

"  That  was  where  you  had  so  many  wives,"  she 
reminded  him. 

"  So  it  was.  Well,  perhaps  I  needn't  assure 
you  that  the  number  has  been  exaggerated.  I've 
very  nearly  had  some  wives,  but  there  was  always 
something  at  the  last  minute.  There  was  a  girl 
at  Valletta,  I  remember  —  a  splendid  girl  with  the 
figure  of  a  young  Venus,  and  a  tragic  face  and 
great  eyes  that  seemed  to  drown  you  in  dark. 
Lady  Macbeth  as  a  child  might  have  been  like 
that  —  or  Antigone  with  the  doom  on  her,  or  per- 
haps Elektra.  No,  I  expect  Elektra  took  after 
her  mother:  red-haired  girl,  I  fancy.  But  there 
you  are.  She  was  a  lovely,  solemn,  deep-eyed, 
hag-ridden  goose.  Not  a  word  to  say  —  thought 


A  LEAP  OUTWARDS  81 

mostly  of  pudding.  I  found  that  out  by  supposing 
that  she  thought  of  me.  Then  I  was  piqued,  and 
we  parted.  I  suppose  she's  vast  now,  and  glued 
to  an  upper  window-ledge  with  her  great  eyes  peer- 
ing through  a  slat  in  the  shutter.  Living  in  a 
bed-gown.  Imagine  a  wife  who  lives  in  a  bed- 
gown! " 

They  were  lunching  at  Colchester  when  these 
amorous  chapters  were  reached.  Lucy  was  quite 
at  her  ease  with  her  companion.  "  A  wife  who 
was  always  at  the  dressmaker's  would  suit  you  no 
better.  But  I  don't  know  that  mixed  marriages 
often  answer.  After  all,  so  dreadfully  much  can 
never  be  opened  between  you." 

"  That's  quite  true,"  he  said,  "  and  by  no  means 
only  of  mixed  marriages.  How  much  can  your 
average  husband  and  wife  open  between  them? 
Practically  nothing,  since  they  choose  to  live  by 
speech." 

"  But  what  else  have  we?  " 

"  I  would  choose  to  live  by  touch,"  he  said. 
"  If  two  people  can't  communicate  fully  and  suf- 
ficiently by  the  feelers  they  are  not  in  the  same 
sphere  and  have  no  common  language.  But 
speech  is  absurd.  Why,  every  phrase,  and  nearly 
every  word,  has  a  conventional  value." 


82  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

By  touch  1  She  was  set  dreaming  by  that.  So 
she  and  James  —  a  James  she  had  had  no  con- 
ception of  —  had  communicated  not  four-and- 
twenty  hours  ago.  Certainly  subsequent  speech 
had  not  advanced  the  intelligence  then  conveyed. 

But  she  resumed  Urquhart's  affairs.  u  And  do 
you  despair  of  finding  a  woman  with  whom  you 
can  hold  communion?  " 

"  No,"  he  said,  looking  at  the  bread  which  he 
broke.  "  I  don't  despair  at  all.  I  think  that  I 
shall  find  her."  And  then  he  looked  steadily  at 
her,  and  she  felt  a  little  uncomfortable.  But  it 
was  over  in  a  minute. 

She  feared  to  provoke  that  again,  so  made  no 
fishing  comment;  but  she  was  abundantly  curious 
of  what  his  choice  would  be.  Meantime  he  mused 
aloud. 

"  What  you  want  for  a  successful  marriage  is  — 
a  layer  of  esteem,  without  which  you  will  infalli- 
bly, if  you  are  a  man,  over-reach  yourself  and  be 
disgusted;  then  a  liberal  layer  of  animal  passion 
—  and  I  only  shrink  from  a  stronger  word  for 
fear  of  being  misunderstood  —  which  you  won't 
have  unless  you  have  (a)  vitality,  (b)  imagina- 
tion; thirdly,  for  a  crown,  respect.  You  must 
know  your  due,  and  your  duty,  and  fear  to  omit 


A  LEAP  OUTWARDS  83 

the  one  or  excuse  the  other.  Everything  follows 
from  those  three." 

"  And  how  do  you  know  when  you  have  found 
them?" 

He  looked  up  and  out  into  the  country.  "  A 
sudden  glory,"  he  said,  "  a  flare  of  insight. 
There's  no  mistake  possible." 

"  Who  was  the  man,"  she  asked  him,  rather 
mischievously,  "  who  saw  a  girl  at  a  ball,  and 
said,  '  That's  a  fine  girl;  I'll  marry  her  ' —  and  did 
it  —  and  was  miserable  ?  " 

He  twinkled  as  he  answered,  "  That  was  Savage 
Landor ;  but  it  was  his  own  fault.  He  could  never 
make  concessions."  She  thought  him  a  very  in- 
teresting companion. 

On  the  way  home  he  talked  more  fitfully,  with 
intervals  of  brooding  silence.  But  he  was  not 
morose  in  his  fits,  and  when  he  excused  himself  for 
sulking,  she  warmly  denied  that  he  did  any  such 
thing.  "  I  expect  you  are  studying  the  motor," 
she  said;  and  he  laughed.  "  I'm  very  capable  of 
that." 

Altogether,  a  successful  day.  She  returned 
braced  to  her  duties,  her  James,  and  his  hidden-up 
Eros.  To  go  home  to  James  had  become  an  ex- 
citing thing  to  do. 


CHAPTER  VII 

PATIENCE   AND    PSYCHE 

THERE  are  two  ways  of  encountering  an 
anti-climax,  an  heroic,  an  unheroic. 
Lucy  did  her  best  to  be  a  heroine,  but  her 
temperament  was  against  her.  Her  imagination 
was  very  easily  kindled,  and  her  reasons  much  at 
the  mercy  of  the  flames.  By  how  much  she  was 
exalted,  by  so  much  was  she  dashed.  But  she  had 
a  conscience  too,  a  lively  one  with  a  forefinger 
mainly  in  evidence.  It  would  be  tedious  to  re- 
count how  often  that  wagged  her  into  acquiescence 
with  a  James  suddenly  revealed  freakish,  and  how 
often  she  relapsed  into  the  despair  of  one  sharply 
rebuffed  when  she  found  him  sedately  himself. 
However,  or  by  means  of  her  qualities,  the  time- 
cure  worked  its  way;  her  inflammation  wore  itself 
out,  and  her  life  resumed  its  routine  of  dinner- 
parties, calls  and  callers,  Francis  Lingen's  purring, 
and  letters  to  or  from  Lancelot  —  with  this  dif- 

84 


PATIENCE  AND  PSYCHE  85 

ference,  mind  you,  that  far  recessed  in  her  mind 
there  lay  a  grain,  a  grain  of  promise :  that  and  a 
glamorous  memory. 

She  was  able  to  write  her  first  letter  to  Lancelot 
in  high  spirits,  then,  to  tell  him  her  little  bits  of 
news  and  to  remind  him  (really  to  remind  herself) 
of  good  days  in  the  past  holiday-time.  Something 
she  may  have  said,  or  left  unsaid,  as  the  chance 
may  be,  drew  the  following  reply.  She  always 
wrote  to  him  on  Friday,  so  that  he  might  answer 
her  on  Sunday. 

"  Dear  Mama,"  he  wrote,  "  I  was  third  in 
weakly  o.rder  which  was  rather  good  (I.d.t.)*. 
Mr.  Tonks  said  if  I  go  up  so  fast  I  shall  brake  the 
ceialing.  Bad  spelling  I  know  but  still.  Last 
Wendesday  a  boy  named  Jenkinson  swalowed  a 
button-hook  but  recovered  it  practically  as  good  as 
when  bought  (or  perhaps  a  Xmas  present).  He 
was  always  called  Bolter  for  a  nickname,  so  it  was 
jolly  convene.  For  once  he  did  the  right  thing. 
Mostly  he  is  an  utter  ass.  How  is  the  polliga- 
mous  pirate  getting  on  with  wives  &c.  ?  That 
comes  from  a  Greek  word  TTO'AIS,  a  city,  so  I  sup- 
pose in  the  country  they  are  too  conventual.  I 
like  him  awfully.  He's  my  sort  (not  Father's 


86  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

though).  Well,  the  term  is  waring  away.  Five 
days  crost  off  on  new  diery.  Where  shall  we  go 
this  time  three  months?  Easter  I  mean.  Wy- 
cross  I  hope,  but  suppose  dreery  Brighton,  hope 
not.  I  must  swot  now  Kings  of  Isereel  and  such- 
like so  goodby  now  or  so  long  as  we  say  here  — 
LANCELOT/' 

She  thought  that  she  must  show  the  letter  to  Ur- 
quhart  when  next  she  saw  him,  and  meantime,  of 
course,  showed  it  to  James.  The  eyeglass  grew 
abhorrent  over  the  spelling.  "  This  boy  passes 
belief.  Look  at  this,  Lucy.  C-e-i-a-ling  1 " 
"Oh,  don't  you  see?"  she  cried.  "He  had  it 
perfectly:  c-e-i.  Well,  and  then  a  devil  of  doubt 
came  in,  and  he  tried  an  a.  Oh,  I  can  see  it  now, 
on  his  blotting-pad!  Whichever  he  decided  on, 
he  must  have  forgotten  to  cross  out  the  other. 
You  shouldn't  be  so  hard  on  your  own  son.  His 
first  letter  too." 

James  felt  compunction.  "  No,  no,  I  won't  be 
hard.  It's  all  right,  of  course."  He  read  on. 
The  polligamous  pirate  with  wives  &c.  had  to  be 
explained.  She  told  him  the  story.  The  eye- 
glass became  a  searchlight  exploring  her. 

"Did  Urquhart  tell  that  tale?  Upon  my 
soul  —  !" 


PATIENCE  AND  PSYCHE  87 

"  It  was  sheer  nonsense,  of  course,  but  — " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  James.  '  You  can't 
tell  with  a  man  of  that  sort.  He  can  be  a  March 
hare  if  he's  in  the  mood.  He'd  as  soon  shoot  a 
Turk  as  a  monkey,  or  keep  two  women  as  half 
a  dozen.  By  the  by,  Lucy,"  and  the  eyeglass 
went  out  like  a  falling  star,  "  don't  let  that  sen- 
timental idiot  make  too  much  of  an  ass  of  him- 
self." 

Lucy's  eyes  concentrated;  they  shone.  'Who 
is  your  sentimental  idiot?  I  haven't  the  least 
notion  what  you  mean." 

"  I  mean  Francis  Lingen,  of  course.  You  must 
admit —  Oh,"  and  he  nipped  her  indignation  in 
the  bud,  "  I  know  you  won't  misunderstand  me. 
I  am  not  at  all  a  fool.  You  are  kindness  itself, 
generosity  itself.  But  there  it  is.  He's  an  ass, 
and  there's  really  nothing  more  to  say." 

Lucy  was  mollified.  She  was,  indeed,  amused 
after  the  first  flash.  Remembering  the  James  of 
a  week  ago,  the  eager  wooer  of  the  dark,  she  was 
able  to  be  playful  with  a  little  jealousy.  But  if  he 
could  have  known  —  or  if  she  had  cared  to  tell 
him  —  what  she  had  been  thinking  of  on  Sunday 
afternoon  when  Francis  purred  to  her  about  him- 
self and  sought  her  advice  how  best  to  use  his  ten 


88  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

thousand  of  Urquhart's  pounds  —  well,  James 
would  have  understood,  that's  all! 

So  she  laughed.  "  Poor  Francis  Lingen !  He 
is  not  very  wise.  But  I  must  say  that  your  honour 
is  perfectly  safe  with  me." 

"  My  dear  child  — "  said  James,  frowning. 

"  No,  no,  I  shall  go  on.  It  will  do  you  good. 
There  is  one  thing  you  may  always  be  quite  sure 
of,  dear,  and  that  is  that  the  more  Francis  Lingen 
is  a  goose,  the  less  likely  I  am  to  encourage  him  in 
goosery,  if  there  is  such  a  word." 

James  pished,  but  she  pursued  him.  Mabel 
was  announced,  up  from  the  country  to  dine  and 
sleep.  The  Parthian  shot  was  delivered  actually 
on  the  way  to  Mabel's  embrace.  "  But  I'm  flat- 
tered to  see  you  jealous  —  please  understand  that. 
I  should  like  you  to  be  jealous  of  the  chair  I  sit 
on." 

James  was  hurt  and  uncomfortable.  He 
thought  all  this  rank  form.  And  Mabel  —  the 
bright  and  incisive  Mabel  with  her  high  hunting 
colour  —  made  it  much  worse.  "What!  Is 
James  jealous?  Oh,  how  perfectly  splendid!  Is 
he  going  to  give  secret  orders  to  Crewdson  not 
to  admit  Mr. —  ?  As  they  do  in  plays  at  the 
St.  James's?  Oh,  James,  do  tell  me  whom 


PATIENCE  AND  PSYCHE  89 

you  darkly  suspect?  Caesar's  wife!  My  dear 
and  injured  man  — "  James  writhed,  but  he  was 
in  the  trap.  You  may  be  too  trenchant,  it 
would  seem,  and  your  cleaver  stick  fast  in  the 
block. 

It  behooved  him  to  take  a  strong  line.  This 
kind  of  raillery  must  be  stopped.  He  must  steer 
between  the  serious  and  the  flippant.  He  hated 
to  be  pert;  on  the  other  hand,  to  be  solemn  would 
be  offensive  to  Lucy  —  which  he  would  not  be. 
For  James  was  a  gentleman.  "  Mabel,  my  dear, 
you  stretch  the  privileges  of  a  guest  — "  a  promis- 
ing beginning,  he  thought;  but  Lucy  pitied  him 
plunging  there,  and  cut  all  short  by  a  way  of  her 
own.  "  Oh,  Mabel,  you  are  a  goose.  Come  and 
take  your  things  off,  and  tell  me  all  about  Peltry, 
and  the  hunting,  and  the  new  horse.  Mr.  Urqu- 
hart  told  me  he  was  going  to  stay  with  you.  Is 
he?  I'm  so  glad  you  like  him.  Lancelot  and  I 
highly  approve.  I  must  show  you  Lancelot's  let- 
ter about  him.  He  calls  him  the  polligamous 
pirate  —  with  two  /'s  of  course." 

"  Yes,"  said  James,  who  had  recovered  his  com- 
posure, "  yes,  my  dear;  but  he  gives  you  the  accent 
in  fl-oAts." 

"Does  he  though?     I'm  afraid  that  was  be- 


90  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

yond  me."  She  paused  to  beam  at  James. 
"  That  pleases  you?  " 

"  It's  a  sign  of  grace,  certainly."  So  the  squall 
blew  over. 

James  was  dining  out  somewhere,  so  the  sisters 
had  a  short  dinner  and  a  very  long  evening  by  the 
fire.  Lucy  dallied  with  her  great  news  until 
Crewdson  had  served  the  coffee  —  then  out  it 
came,  with  inordinate  and  delightful  delicacy  of 
approach.  Mabel's  eyes  throughout  were  fixed 
upon  her  face.  ..."  And  of  course,  naturally  — " 
Here  Lucy  turned  away  her  own.  "  But  nothing 

—  not  a  sign.     Neither  then  nor  since.     I — "; 
she  stopped,  bit  her  lip,  then  broke  forth.     "  I 
shall  never  understand  it.     Oh,  I  do  think  it  ex- 
traordinary!  " 

Mabel  said  at  once,  "  It's  not  at  all  extraor- 
dinary. It  would  be  with  any  one  else;  but  not 
with  James." 

Lucy  lifted  her  head.  "  What  do  you  mean, 
Mabel?" 

"  Well,  it's  difficult  to  explain.  You  are  so  odd 
about  James.  He  is  either  the  sort  of  being  you 
name  in  a  whisper  —  or  makes  you  edgy  all  over 

—  like  a  slate-pencil.     But  James  —  I  dare  say 
you  haven't  noticed  it:  you  think  he's  a  clever  man, 


PATIENCE  AND  PSYCHE  91 

and  so  he  may  be ;  but  really  he  has  never  grown 
up." 

Lucy's  foot  began  to  rock.  "  My  dear  girl, 
really—" 

"  Oh,  I  know.  I  know.  Of  course  you're  an- 
noyed, especially  after  such  a  queer  experience. 
We  won't  discuss  it  —  it  will  be  useless.  But 
that's  my  opinion,  you  know.  I  think  that  he  was 
completely  successful,  according  to  his  own  ideas." 
The  battle  raged;  I  need  not  add  that  the  mystery, 
far  from  being  undiscussed,  was  driven  up  and 
down  the  field  of  possibility  till  a  late  hour;  nor 
that  Mabel  held  to  her  position,  in  high  dispar- 
agement, as  Lucy  felt,  of  Lancelot,  deeply  in- 
volved. 

An  upshot,  and  a  shrewd  one,  was  Mabel's 
abrupt,  "Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  now? 
I  mean,  supposing  he  does  it  again?" 

Lucy  mused.  "  I  don't  somehow  think  he  will, 
for  a  long  time."  She  added  naively,  "  I  wish  he 
would.  I  like  it." 

Mabel  understood  her.  "  You  mean  that  you 
like  him  for  doing  it."  And  dreamy  Lucy  nodded. 
"  Yes,  that's  exactly  what  I  mean.  I  do,  aw- 
fully." 

Mabel   here   kissed   Lucy.     "  Dearest,   you're 


92  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

wonderfully  sweet.  You  would  love  anybody  who 
loved  you." 

"  I  don't  think  I  would,"  Lucy  said,  "  but  I 
should  certainly  have  loved  James  more  if  he  had 
ever  seemed  to  love  me.  And  I  can't  possibly 
doubt  that  he  did  that  day  that  Lancelot  went 
back.  What  bothers  me  is  that  he  stopped  there." 
And  so,  to  it  again,  in  the  manner  of  women,  tire- 
less in  speculation  about  what  is  not  to  be  under- 
stood. 

James,  restored  in  tone,  was  affable,  and  even 
considerate,  in  the  morning.  Mabel,  studying 
him  with  new  eyes,  had  to  admire  his  flawless  sur- 
face, though  her  conviction  of  the  shallow  depth 
of  him  was  firmlier  rooted  than  before.  "  He 
is  —  he  really  is  —  a  tremendous  donkey,  poor 
James,"  she  thought  to  herself  as  he  gave  out 
playful  sarcasms  at  her  expense,  and  was  incisive 
without  loss  of  urbanity.  Mabel  was  urgent  with 
her  sister  to  join  the  party  at  Peltry  when  Urqu- 
hart  was  there.  "  I  do  wish  you  would.  He's 
rather  afraid  of  you,  I  think,  and  that  will  throw 
him  upon  me  —  which  is  what  is  wanted."  That 
was  how  she  put  it. 

James,  quite  the  secure,  backed  her  up.  ;'  I 
should  go  if  I  were  you,"  he  said  to  Lucy  from 


PATIENCE  AND  PSYCHE  93 

behind  the  Morning  Post.  "  It  will  do  you  a 
great  deal  of  good.  You  always  choose  February 
to  moult  in,  and  you  will  have  to  be  feathered 
down  there.  Besides,  it's  evident  you  can  be  use- 
ful to  Mabel."  Lucy  went  so  far  as  to  get  out 
her  engagement  book,  and  to  turn  up  the  date, 
not  very  seriously.  What  she  found  confirmed 
her.  "  I  can't,"  she  said;  "  it's  out  of  the  ques- 


tion." 


"Why,  what  is  happening?"  Mabel  must 
know. 

"  It's  an  Opera  night,"  said  Lucy.  "  The 
Walkiire  is  happening." 

"  Oh,  are  they?  H'm.  Yes,  I  suppose  I  can't 
expect  you." 

Lucy  was  scornfully  clear.  "  I  should  think 
not  indeed.  Not  for  a  wilderness  of  Urqu- 
harts!" 

r  "  Not  all  the  peltry  of  Siberia  — "  said  James, 
rather  sharply,  as  he  thought;  and  dismissed  the 
subject  in  favour  of  his  own  neatly-spatted  foot. 
"  Wagner !  "  he  said.  "  I  am  free  to  confess 
that,  apart  from  the  glory  of  the  thing,  I  had 
rather  — " 

"  Marry  one  of  Mr.  Urquhart's  wives,"  said 
the  hardy  Mabel. 


94  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

'  Two,"  said  James,  quite  ready  for  her. 

Mabel  rattled  away  to  her  Essex  and  left  her 
sister  all  the  better  for  the  astringent  she  had  im- 
parted. Lucy  did  not  agree  with  her  by  any 
means;  it  made  her  hot  with  annoyance  to  realise 
that  anybody  could  so  think  of  James.  At  the 
same  time  she  felt  that  she  must  steady  herself. 
After  all,  a  man  might  kiss  his  wife  if  he  pleased, 
and  he  might  do  it  how  he  pleased.  It  was  un- 
dignified to  speculate  about  it.  She  tried  very 
hard  to  drive  that  home  to  herself,  and  she  did 
succeed  in  imposing  it  upon  her  conduct.  But  she 
was  not  convinced.  She  was  too  deeply  romantic 
for  conviction  by  any  such  specious  reasoning. 
That  affair  in  the  darK  had  been  the  real  thing; 
it  implied  —  oh,  everything.  Let  come  what 
might,  let  be  what  was,  that  was  the  true  truth  of 
the  mystery.  And  to  be  loved  like  that  was  — 
oh,  everything! 

But  she  dismissed  it  from  her  thoughts  with  an 
effort  of  will,  and  relations  with  James  resumed 
their  old  position.  They  became  formal,  they 
were  tinged  now  and  again  with  the  old  asperity; 
they  were  rather  dreary.  Lancelot's  star  rose  as 
James's  sank  in  the  heavens.  His  letters  became 
her  chief  preoccupation.  But  James's  star,  fallen 


PATIENCE  AND  PSYCHE  95 

low  though  it  were,  still  showed  a  faint  hue  of 
rose-colour. 

Some  little  time  after  this  —  somewhere  in 
early  February,  she  met  Urquhart  at  a  luncheon 
party,  and  was  glad  to  see  him.  He  shook  hands 
in  his  usual  detached  way,  as  if  her  gladness  and 
their  acquaintance  were  matters  of  course.  He 
sat  next  to  her  without  ceremony,  removing 
another  man's  name-card  for  the  purpose,  and 
after  a  few  short,  snapped  phrases  about  any- 
thing or  nothing,  they  drifted  into  easy  talk. 
Lucy's  simplicity  made  her  a  delightful  companion, 
when  she  was  sure  of  her  footing.  She  told  him 
that  she  had  been  saving  up  Lancelot's  letter  to 
show  him.  "  Good,"  he  said.  "  I  want  it." 

But  it  was  not  here,  as  it  happened.  So  she 
wrote  out  from  memory  the  sentence  about  Urqu- 
hart: the  polligamous  pirate,  with  wives  &c. 
"Aren't  you  flattered?"  she  asked  him,  radiant 
with  mirthful  malice.  He  frowned  approval. 
He  was  pleased,  but,  like  all  those  who  make 
laughter,  he  had  none  of  his  own.  "  That  shot 
told.  I  got  him  with  the  first  barrel.  Trust  a 
boy  to  love  a  law-breaker.  He'll  never  forget 
me  that.  He's  my  friend  for  life."  He  added, 
as  if  to  himself,  "  Hope  so,  anyhow." 


96  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

Lucy  at  this,  had  she  been  a  cat,  would  have 
purred  and  kneaded  the  carpet.  As  it  was,  her 
contentment  emboldened  her  to  flights.  She  was 
much  more  bird  than  cat.  "  I  wonder  if  you 
are  really  a  law-breaker,"  she  said.  "  I  don't 
think  I  should  be  surprised  to  know  it  of  you." 

He  frowned  again.  "  No,  I  should  say  that 
the  ground  had  been  prepared  for  that.  You 
wouldn't  be  surprised  —  but  would  you  be  dis- 
turbed? That's  what  I  want  to  know  before  I 
tell  you." 

This  had  to  be  considered.  What  did  she  in 
her  private  mind  think  of  law-breakers?  One 
thing  was  quite  clear  to  her.  Whatever  she  might 
think  of  them,  she  was  not  prepared  to  tell  him. 

"  I'm  a  lawyer's  wife,  you  know." 

"That  tells  me  nothing,"  he  said.  "That 
would  only  give  you  the  position  of  an  expert.  It 
doesn't  commit  you  to  a  line.  I'll  tell  you  this  — 
it  may  encourage  you  to  a  similar  confidence.  If 
I  wanted  to  break  a  law  very  badly,  I  shouldn't 
do  it  on  reflection  perhaps;  but  I  could  never  resist 
a  sudden  impulse.  If  somebody  told  me  that  it 
would  be  desirable  in  all  sorts  of  ways  to  break 
a  man's  head  I  shouldn't  do  it,  because  I  should  be 
bothering  myself  with  all  the  possibilities  of  the 


PATIENCE  AND  PSYCHE  97 

thing  —  how  desirable  it  might  be,  or  how  unde- 
sirable. But  if,  happening  to  be  in  his  company, 
I  saw  his  head  in  a  breakable  aspect  —  splosh  1  I 
should  land  him  a  nasty  one.  That's  a  certainty. 
Now,  what  should  you  say  to  that?  It  happens 
that  I  want  to  know."  It  was  evident  to  her  that 
he  really  did. 

Lucy  gave  him  one  of  her  kind,  compassionate 
looks,  which  always  made  her  seem  beautiful,  and 
said,  "  I  should  forgive  you.  I  should  tell  you 
that  you  were  too  young  for  your  years;  but  I 
should  forgive  you,  I'm  sure." 

"  That's  what  I  wanted  to  know,"  said  Urqu- 
hart,  and  remained  silent  for  a  while.  When  he 
resumed  it  was  abruptly,  on  a  totally  new  matter. 
"  I  shall  bring  my  sister  over  to  you  after  this. 
She's  here.  I  don't  know  whether  you'll  like  her. 
She'll  like  you." 

"Where  is  she?"  Lucy  asked,  rather  curious. 

"  She's  over  there,  by  our  hostess.  That  big 
black  hat  is  hers.  She's  underneath  it."  Lucy 
saw  a  spry,  black-haired  youngish  woman,  very 
vicacious  but  what  she  herself  called  "  good." 
James  would  have  said,  "  Smart."  Not  at  all 
like  her  brother,  she  thought,  and  said  so. 
"  She's  not  such  a  scoundrel,"  Urquhart  admitted, 


98  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

"  but  she  takes  a  line  of  her  own.  Her  husband's 
name  is  Nugent.  Pie  is  South  Irish,  where  we  are 
North.  That  boy  who  went  with  us  to  the  play  is 
her  son.  He  is  a  lively  breed  —  so  it  hasn't 
turned  out  amiss.  She's  not  at  all  your  sort,  but 
as  you  know  the  worst  of  us  you  may  as  well  know 
what  we  can  do  when  we  exert  ourselves."  He 
added,  "  My  old  father,  now  with  Beelzebub,  was 
a  terror." 

"  Do  tell  me  about  him." 

"  It  would  take  too  long.  He  was  very  old- 
fashioned  in  most  ways.  They  used  to  call  him 
King  Urquhart  in  Donegal.  The  worst  of  it  was 
that  he  knew  good  claret  and  could  shoot.  That 
makes  a  bad  combination.  He  used  to  sit  on  a 
hogshead  of  it  in  his  front  yard  and  challenge  all 
and  sundry  to  mortal  combat.  He  really  did. 
Duels  he  used  to  call  them.  He  said,  '  Me 
honour's  involved,  d'ye  see?'  and  believed  it. 
But  they  were  really  murders,  because  he  was  in- 
fallible with  a  revolver.  He  adored  my  mother, 
but  she  couldn't  do  anything  with  him.  *  Tush, 
me  dear,'  he  used  to  say,  '  I  wouldn't  hurt  a  hair 
of  his  bald  head.'  And  then  he'd  have  to  bolt 
over  to  France  for  a  bit  and  keep  quiet.  But 
everybody  liked  him,  I'm  sorry  to  say.  They 


PATIENCE  AND  PSYCHE  99 

gave  him  a  public  funeral  when  he  died.  They 
took  him  out  of  the  hearse  —  imagine  the  great 
sooty  plumes  of  it  —  and  carried  him  to  the 
chapel  —  half  a  mile  away."  Lucy  didn't  know 
how  much  of  this  to  believe,  which  made  it  none 
the  worse. 

"He  was  a  Catholic?" 

"  He  was." 

"  And  so  are  you?  " 

He  looked  up.  "Eh?  I  suppose  I  am  —  if 
any." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  she  insisted. 

"  Well,"  he  said.  "  It's  there,  I  expect.  You 
don't  get  rid  of  it."  She  considered  this  to  her- 
self. 

Mrs.  Nugent  —  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Nugent, 
as  it  afterwards  appeared  —  made  herself  very 
amiable.  "  We  both  like  boys,"  she  said,  "  which 
makes  everything  easy.  I  hope  you  liked  my  Pat 
—  you  met  him,  I  know.  Yours  seems  to  be  an 
unconscious  humourist.  Jimmy  is  always  chuck- 
ling over  him.  Mine  takes  after  the  Urquharts; 
rather  grim,  but  quite  sound  when  you  know  them. 
My  husband  is  really  Irish.  He  might  say  '  Be- 
gorra '  at  any  minute.  The  Urquharts  are  a 
mixed  lot.  Jimmy  says  we're  Eurasians  when 


ioo  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

he's  cross  with  us  —  which  means  with  himself. 
I  suppose  we  were  border  thieves  once,  like  the 
Turnbulls  and  Pringles.  But  James  I  planted  us 
in  Ireland,  and  there  have  been  James  Urquharts 
ever  since.  I  don't  know  why  that  seems  satisfac- 
tory, but  it  does." 

"  I  saw  what  Jimmy  was  saying,  you  know,"  she 
said  presently.  "  He  began  upon  me,  and  then 
slid  off  to  our  deplorable  father.  An  inexhausti- 
ble subject  to  Jimmy,  who  really  admires  that  kind 
of  thing." 

Lucy  smilingly  deprecated  the  criticism. 

"  Oh,  but  he  does.  If  he  could  be  like  that,  he 
would  be.  But  he  wants  two  qualities  —  he  can't 
laugh,  and  he  can't  cry.  Father  could  only  laugh 
internally.  He  used  to  get  crimson,  and  swallow 
hard.  That  was  his  way.  Jimmy  can't  laugh  at 
all,  that's  the  mischief  of  it.  And  crying  too. 
Father  could  cry  rivers.  One  of  the  best  things 
I  remember  of  him  was  his  crying  before  Mother. 
*  Damn  it  all,  Meg,  I  missed  him ! '  he  said,  chok- 
ing with  grief.  Mother  knew  exactly  what  to 
say.  *  You'll  get  him  next  time,  Jimmy.  Come 
and  change  your  stockings  now.'  Well,  our 
Jimmy  couldn't  do  that.  To  begin  with,  of 
course,  he  wouldn't  have  *  missed  him.'  " 


PATIENCE  AND  PSYCHE         101 

"  No,"  said  Lucy,  reflecting,  "  I  don't  think  he 
would  miss  —  unless  he  was  in  too  much  of  a 
hurry  to  hit." 

Mrs.  Nugent  looked  quickly  at  her.  "  That  is 
very  clever  of  you.  You  have  touched  on  his 
great  difference  from  Father.  He  is  awfully  im- 
patient." 

All  this  did  Lucy  a  great  deal  of  good.  James 
thought  that  she  had  better  call  on  Mrs.  Nugent. 
He  knew  all  about  her. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

AGAIN 

THE  second  time  was  in  late  February,  at 
the  Opera :  the  Walkiire,  of  all  operas  in 
the  world,  where  passion  of  the  sudden- 
est  is  seen  on  its  most  radiant  spring  morning. 
James,  who  was  dreadfully  bored  by  Wagner,  and 
only  went  because  it  was  the  thing  to  do,  and 
truly  also  because  "  a  man  must  be  seen  with  his 
wife,"  could  not  promise  to  be  there,  dressed,  at 
such  an  unearthly  hour  as  half-past  six  —  James, 
I  say,  did  not  go  with  her,  but  vowed  to  be  there 
"  long  before  seven."  That  he  undertook.  So 
she  went  alone,  and  sat,  as  she  always  did,  half 
hidden  behind  the  curtain  of  her  box  on  the  sec- 
ond tier. 

The  place  was  flooded  with  dark.  The  great 
wonder  began  —  the  amazing  prelude  with  its 
brooding,  its  surmisals,  its  storms,  its  pounding 
hooves  remorselessly  pursuing,  and  flashes  of  the 
horn,  like  the  blare  of  lightning.  She  surrendered 
herself,  and  as  the  curtain  rose  settled  down  to 

102 


AGAIN  103 

drink  with  the  eyes  as  well  as  with  the  ears;  for 
she  was  no  musician,  and  could  only  be  deeply 
moved  by  this  when  she  saw  and  heard.  It  imme- 
diately absorbed  her;  the  music  "of  preparation 
and  suspense  "  seemed  to  turn  her  bones  to  liquor 
—  and  at  this  moment  she  again  felt  herself  pos- 
sessed by  man's  love :  the  strong  hand  over  her 
heart,  the  passion  of  his  hold,  the  intoxication  of 
the  kiss.  To  the  accompaniment  of  shrill  and 
wounded  violins  she  yielded  herself  to  this  miracle 
of  the  dark.  She  seemed  to  hear  in  a  sharp  whis- 
per, "You  darling!  "  She  half  turned,  she  half 
swooned  again,  she  drank,  and  she  gave  to  drink. 
The  music  speared  up  to  the  heights  of  bliss,  then 
subsided  as  the  hold  on  her  relaxed.  When  she 
stretched  out  her  hand  for  her  lover's,  he  was  not 
near  her.  She  was  alone.  The  swift  and  poign- 
ant little  drama  may  have  lasted  a  minute;  but 
like  a  dream  it  had  the  suggestion  of  infinity  about 
it,  transcending  time  as  it  defied  place.  Confused, 
bemused,  she  turned  her  attention  to  the  stage, 
determined  to  compose  herself  at  all  cost.  She 
sat  very  still,  and  shivered;  she  gave  all  her 
powers  to  her  mind,  and  succeeded  by  main  effort. 
Insensibly  the  great  drama  doing  down  there  re- 
sumed its  hold ;  and  it  was  even  with  a  slight  shock 


io4  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

that  she  became  aware  by  and  by  of  James  sitting 
sedately  by  her,  with  the  eyeglass  sharply  set  for 
diversion  anywhere  but  on  the  scene.  Again  she 
remembered  with  secret  amusement  that  she  had 
not  been  conscious  of  the  eyeglass  when  —  for 
reasons  of  his  own  —  he  had  paid  his  mysterious 
homage  to  love  and  her. 

She  kept  a  firm  grip  of  herself:  she  would  not 
move  an  inch  towards  him.  She  could  never  do 
that  again.  But  she  passed  him  over  the  play- 
bill, and  lifted  the  glasses  to  show  him  where  they 
were.  She  saw  the  eyeglass  dip  as  he  nodded  his 
thanks,  and  heard  him  whisper  as  he  passed  back 
the  bill,  "  No  good.  Dark  as  the  grave."  Oh, 
extraordinary  James!  She  suffered  hysterical 
laughter,  but  persisted  against  it,  and  succeeded. 

When  the  lights  went  up  she  afforded  herself  a 
gay  welcome  of  him,  from  gleaming,  happy  and 
conscious  eyes.  He  met  it  blandly,  smiled  awry 
and  said,  "You  love  it?" 

"  Oh,"  she  sighed,  meaning  all  that  she  dared 
not  say,  "  how  I  love  it!  " 

James  said,  "  Bravo.  I  was  very  punctual, 
you'll  admit."  That  very  nearly  overcame  her. 
But  all  she  said  was,  "  I  didn't  hear  you  come  in 
—  or  go  out." 


AGAIN  105 

James  looked  very  vague  at  that.  He  was  on 
the  point  of  frowning  over  it,  but  gave  it  up.  It 
was  a  Lucyism.  He  rose  and  touched  his  coat- 
collar,  to  feel  that  it  gripped  where  it  should. 
"  Let's  see  who's  in  the  house,"  he  said,  and 
searched  the  boxes.  "  Royalty,  as  usual  1  That's 
what  I  call  devotion.  Who's  that  woman  in  a 
snow-leopard?  Oh,  yes,  of  course.  Hullo.  I 
say,  my  child,  will  you  excuse  me  ?  I've  just  seen 
some  people  I  ought  to  see.  There's  lots  of  time 
—  and  I  won't  be  late."  And  he  was  off.  A 
very  remarkable  lover  indeed  was  James. 

Mrs.  Nugent  waved  her  hand  across  the  par- 
terre. Francis  Lingen  knocked  and  entered. 
She  could  afford  that;  and  presently  a  couple 
added  themselves,  young  married  people  whom 
she  liked  for  their  poverty,  hopefulness  and  un- 
affected pleasure  in  each  other.  She  made  Lingen 
acquainted  with  them,  and  talked  to  young  Mr. 
Pierson.  He  spoke  with  a  cheer  in  his  voice. 
"  Ripping  opera.  Madge  adores  it.  We  saw 
your  husband  downstairs,  but  I  don't  think  he 
knew  us.".  .  .  And  through  her  head  blew  the 
words  like  a  searching  wind:  "You  darling  I 
You  darling!  "  Oh,  that  was  great  love !  Small 
wonder  that  James  saw  nothing  of  the  Piersons. 


106  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

And  yet  —  ah,  she  must  give  up  speculating  and 
judging.  That  had  undone  poor  Psyche.  Young 
Mr.  Pierson  chattered  away  about  Madge  and 
Wagner,  both  ripping;  James  returned,  bland, 
positive,  dazzling  the  man  of  exclusive  clubs;  was 
reminded  of  young  Mrs.  Pierson,  with  whom  he 
shook  hands,  of  young  Mr.  Pierson,  to  whom  he 
nodded  and  said  "  Ha !  "  and  finally  of  Francis 
Lingen.  "  Ha,  Lingen,  you  here ! "  Francis 
shivered.  That  seemed  to  him  to  ring  a  knell. 
Since  when  had  he  been  Lingen  to  James.  Since 
this  moment.  Now  why  had  James  cold-shoul- 
dered him?  Was  it  possible  that  he  had  noticed 
too  much  devotion?  .  .  .  And  if  he  had,  was 
it  not  certain  that  she  must  have  noticed  it?  He 
stopped  midway  of  the  stairs,  and  passers-by  may 
have  thought  he  was  looking  for  a  dropt  sixpence. 
Not  at  all.  The  earth  seemed  to  be  heaving 
beneath  his  feet.  But  a  wave  of  courage  surged 
up  through  him.  Pooh !  no  woman  yet  ever  dis- 
regarded the  homage  of  a  man.  He  would  send 
some  roses  to-morrow,  without  a  card.  She 
would  understand.  And  so  it  went  on.  Wagner 
came  back  to  his  own. 

On  this  occasion,  after  this  second  great  adven- 
ture, Lucy  had  no  conflict  with  fate.     Thankfully 


AGAIN  107 

she  took  the  gift  of  the  God;  she  took  it  as  final, 
as  a  thing  complete  in  itself,  a  thing  most  beauti- 
ful, most  touching,  most  honourable  to  giver  and 
recipient.  It  revived  all  her  warmth  of  feeling, 
but  this  time  without  a  bitter  lees  to  the  dram. 
And  she  was  immensely  the  better  for  it.  She  felt 
in  charity  with  all  the  world,  her  attitude  to  James 
was  one  of  clear  sight.  Oh,  now  she  understood 
him  through  and  through.  She  would  await  the 
fulness  of  time;  sufficient  for  the  day  was  the  light 
of  the  day. 

She  was  happier  than  she  had  been  for  many 
years.  Half-term  was  approaching,  when  she 
would  be  allowed  to  go  down  and  see  Lancelot; 
in  these  days  she  felt  Spring  in  the  air.  February 
can  be  kind  to  us,  and  show  a  golden  threshold  to 
March.  She  had  a  letter  from  Mabel  telling  her 
of  Mr.  Urquhart's  feats  in  the  hunting  field.  .  .  . 
"  He's  quite  mad,  I  think,  and  mostly  talks  about 
you  and  Lancelot.  He  calls  you  Proserpine.  As 
for  his  riding,  my  dear,  it  curdles  the  blood.  He 
doesn't  ride,  he  drives;  sits  well  back,  and  acceler- 
ates on  the  near  side.  He  brought  his  own  horses, 
luckily  for  ours  and  his  neck.  They  seem  to  un- 
derstand it.  He  hunted  every  day  but  one;  and 
then  he  rushed  up  to  town  to  keep  some  appoint- 


io8  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

ment  and  came  back  to  a  very  late  dinner,  driving 
himself  in  his  motor.  He  is  a  tempestuous  per- 
son, but  can  be  very  grave  when  he  likes.  He 
talked  beautifully  one  evening  —  mostly  about 
you."  Lucy's  eyes  smiled  wisely  over  this  letter. 
She  liked  to  think  that  she  could  induce  gravity 
upon  a  hunting  party.  She  had  never  quite  ap- 
proved of  the  Peltry  atmosphere.  Hard  riding 
seemed  to  involve  hard  living,  and  hard  swearing. 
She  had  once  heard  Laurence  let  himself  go  to 
some  rider  over  hounds,  and  had  put  him  on  a 
back  shelf  in  her  mind  —  him  and  his  Peltry  with 
him.  A  prude?  No,  she  was  sure  she  was  noth- 
ing of  the  sort;  but  she  liked  people  to  keep  a  hold 
on  themselves. 

A  gay  little  dinner-party,  one  of  hers,  as  she 
told  James,  finished  a  month  of  high  light.  The 
young  Pierson  couple,  some  Warreners,  a  Mrs. 
Treveer  and  Jimmy  Urquhart  —  eight  with  them- 
selves. The  faithful  Francis  Lingen  was  left  out 
as  a  concession  to  James  and  love  in  the  dark. 
She  noticed,  with  quiet  amusement,  how  gratified 
James  was.  He  was  so  gratified  that  he  did  not 
even  remark  upon  it.  Now  James's  little  weak- 
ness, or  one  of  them,  let  us  say,  was  that  he  could 
not  resist  a  cutting  phrase,  when  the  thing  did  not 
matter.  Therefore  —  she  reasoned  —  Francis 


AGAIN  109 

Lingen,  absurdly  enough,  did  matter.  That  he 
should,  that  anything  of  the  sort  should  matter  to 
James  was  one  more  sign  to  her  of  the  promise, 
just  as  the  weather  was  one.  The  Spring  was  at 
hand,  and  soon  we  should  all  go  a-maying. 

So  we  dined  at  one  table,  and  had  a  blaze  of 
daffodils  from  Wycross,  and  everybody  seemed  to 
talk  at  once.  Pierson  told  her  after  dinner  that 
Madge  thought  Urquhart  ripping  (as  she  had 
thought  Wagner)  ;  and  certainly  he  was  one  to 
make  a  dinner-party  go.  He  was  ridiculous  about 
Laurence  Corbet  and  his  sacred  foxes.  "  Don't 
shoot  that  thing!  God  of  Heaven,  what  are  you 
about?  "  "  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  thought  — " 
"Are  you  out  of  your  senses?  That  must  be 
torn  to  pieces  by  dogs."  He  was  very  good  at 
simulating  savagery,  but  had  a  favourite  trick  of 
dropping  it  suddenly,  or  turning  it  on  himself. 
He  caught  Mrs.  Treveer,  a  lady  of  ardour  not 
tempered  by  insight.  She  agreed  with  him  about 
hunting.  "  Oh,  you  are  so  right !  Now  can't 
something  be  done  about  it?  Couldn't  a  little 
paper  be  written  —  in  that  vein,  you  know?" 
"  Not  by  me,"  said  Urquhart.  "  I'm  a  hunting 
man,  you  see."  Mrs.  Treveer  held  up  her  fan, 
but  took  no  offence. 

Lucy,  with  Mabel's  letter  in  mind,  gave  her 


no  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

guest  some  attention;  but  for  the  life  of  her  could 
not  see  that  he  paid  her  any  beyond  what  he  had 
for  the  others  or  for  his  dinner.  He  joined  Pier- 
son  at  her  side,  and  made  no  effort  to  oust  him. 
He  did  not  flatter  her  by  recalling  Lancelot;  he 
seemed  rather  to  muse  out  loud.  James  with  his 
coat-tails  to  the  fire  was  quite  at  his  ease  —  and 
when  Urquhart  offered  to  drive  her  down  to 
Westgate  for  the  half-term  (which  she  herself 
mentioned),  it  was  James  who  said,  "Capital! 
That  will  be  jolly  for  you."  "  But  you  wouldn't 
come,  would  you?"  "My  child,  it  is  that  I 
couldn't  come.  A  motor  in  March!  I  should 
die.  Besides,"  he  added,  "  as  you  know,  I  have 
to  be  at  Brighton  that  Sunday."  She  had  known 
it,  and  she  had  known  also  that  Brighton  was  an 
excuse.  One  of  the  bogies  she  kept  locked  in  a 
cupboard  was  James's  ennui  when  Lancelot  was 
to  the  fore.  Could  this  too  be  jealousy! 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  Jimmy  Urquhart 
said.  "  The  run  down  would  be  rather  jolly,  but 
the  run  back  in  the  dark  might  be  a  bore.  The 
Nugents  have  got  a  house  at  Sandwich.  Why 
shouldn't  you  go  there?  You  know  my  sister 
Nugent,  as  they  used  to  say." 

'  Yes,   of  course  I  do,"  Lucy  said,   "  but  I 
couldn't  really — " 


AGAIN  in 

"  But  she  is  there,  my  dear  ma'am.  That's 
the  point.  I'll  drop  you  there  on  my  way  back. 
I  wish  I  could  stop  too,  but  that's  not  possible. 
She'll  arrange  it." 

James  thought  it  an  excellent  plan;  but  Lucy 
had  qualms.  Odd,  that  the  visit  of  Eros  should 
a  second  time  be  succeeded  by  a  motor-jaunt !  To 
go  motoring,  again,  with  a  Mr.  Urquhart  —  ohl 
But  she  owned  that  she  was  absurd.  James  did 
not  conceal  his  sarcasms.  "  She  either  fears  her 
fate  too  much  .  .  ."  he  quoted  at  her.  She 
pleaded  with  him. 

"  Darling,"  she  said  —  and  he  was  immensely 
complacent  over  that  — "  I  suppose  it's  a  sign  of 
old  age,  but  —  After  all,  why  shouldn't  I  go  by 
train  —  or  in  our  own  car,  if  it  comes  to  that?  " 

"  Firstly,"  said  James  through  his  eyeglass, 
"  because  Urquhart  asks  you  to  go  in  his  —  a 
terror  that  destroyeth  in  the  noonday  compared 
to  ours;  and  secondly  because,  if  you  don't  want 
it,  I  should  rather  like  to  go  to  Brighton  in  mine." 

"  Oh,"  said  she,  "  then  you  don't  mind  motor- 
ing in  March  I  " 

"  Not  in  a  closed  car,"  said  James — "  and  not 
to  Brighton."  This  acted  as  an  extinguisher  of 
the  warmer  feelings.  Let  Mr.  Urquhart  do  his 
worst  then. 


CHAPTER  IX 

SUNDRY   ROMANTIC   EPISODES 

A  LITTLE  cloud  of  witness,  assembled  at 
will  like  seagulls  out  of  the  blue  inane, 
would  come  about  her  in  after  years. 
That  madly  exhilarating  rush  to  Westgate,  for 
instance,  on  a  keen  March  morning;  and  that 
sudden  question  of  hers  to  Urquhart,  "  What 
made  you  think  of  asking  me?  "  And  his  laconic 
answer,  given  without  a  turn  of  the  head,  "  Be- 
cause I  knew  you  would  like  it.  You  did  before, 
you  know.  And  that  was  January."  There  was 
one.  Another,  connected  with  it,  was  her  going 
alone  up  to  the  schoolhouse,  and  her  flush  of 
pleasure  when  Lancelot  said,  "  Oh,  I  say,  did  He 
bring  you  down  ?  Good  —  then  we'll  go  imme- 
diately and  see  the  car;  perhaps  it's  a  new  one." 
She  could  afford  to  recall  that  —  after  a  long  in- 
terval. They  had  had  a  roaring  day,  "  all  over 
the  place,"  as  Lancelot  said  afterwards  to  a 
friend;  and  then  there  had  been  her  parting  with 
Urquhart  in  the  dark  at  the  open  door  of  Queen- 

112 


SUNDRY  ROMANTIC  EPISODES     113 

don  Court.  "  Aren't  you  going  to  stop  ? " 
"  No,  my  dear."  She  remembered  being  amused 
with  that.  "  Aren't  you  even  coming  in?  "  "  I 
am  not.  Good-bye.  You  enjoyed  yourself?" 
"Oh,  immensely."  "That's  what  I  like,"  he 
had  said,  and  "  pushed  off,"  as  his  own  phrase 
went.  Atop  of  that,  the  return  to  James,  and  to 
nothingness.  For  nothing  happened,  except  that 
he  had  been  in  a  good  temper  throughout,  which 
may  easily  have  been  because  she  had  been  in  one 
herself  —  until  the  Easter  holidays,  when  he  had 
been  very  cross  indeed.  Poor  James,  to  get  him 
to  begin  to  understand  Lancelot's  bluntness,  in- 
tensity, and  passion  for  something  or  other,  did 
seem  hopeless. 

They  were  at  Wycross,  on  her  urgent  entreaty, 
and  James  was  bored  at  Wycross,  she  sometimes 
thought,  because  she  loved  it  so  much.  Jealousy. 
A  man's  wife  ought  to  devote  herself.  She 
should  love  nothing  but  her  husband.  He  had 
spent  his  days  at  the  golf  course,  not  coming  home 
to  lunch.  Urquhart  was  asked  for  a  Sunday  — 
on  Lancelot's  account  —  but  couldn't  come,  or 
said  so  at  least.  Then,  on  the  Saturday,  when 
he  should  have  been  there,  James  suddenly  kissed 
her  in  the  garden  —  and,  of  course,  in  the  dark. 


ii4  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

She  hadn't  known  that  he  was  in  the  house  yet. 
He  had  contracted  the  habit  of  having  tea  at  the 
club-house  and  talking  on  till  dark.     He  did  that, 
as    she    believed,    because    she    always    read    to 
Lancelot  in  the  evenings :  she  gave  up  the  holidays 
entirely  to  him.     Well,  Lancelot  that  afternoon 
had  been  otherwise  engaged- — with  friends  of  a 
neighbour.     She  had  cried  off  on  the  score  of 
"  seeing  something  of  Father,"  at  which  Lancelot 
had  winked.     But  James  was  not  in  to  tea,  and 
at  six  —  and  no  sign  of  him  —  she  yielded  to  the 
liquid  calling  of  a  thrush  in  the  thickening  lilacs, 
and  had  gone  out.     There  she  stayed  till  it  was 
dark,  in  a  favourite  place  —  a  circular  garden  of 
her  contriving,  with  a  pond,  and  a  golden  privet 
hedge,  so  arranged  as  to  throw  yellow  reflections 
in  the  water.     Standing  there,  it  grew  perfectly 
dark  —  deeply  and  softly  dark.     The  night  had 
come  down  warm  and  wet,  like  manifold  blue- 
black   gauze.     She   heard   his   quick,   light  step. 
Her  heart  hammered,  but  she  did  not  move.     He 
came   behind   her,   clasped   and   held   her   close-. 
"  Oh,    you've    come  —  I    wondered.     Oh,    how 
sweet,  how  sweet — "     And  then  "My  love!" 
had  been  said,  and  she  had  been  kissed.     In  a  mo- 
ment he  was  gone.     She  had  stayed  on  motionless, 


SUNDRY  ROMANTIC  EPISODES     115 

enthralled  by  the  beauty  of  the  act  —  and  when 
she  had  withdrawn  herself  at  last,  and  had  tiptoed 
to  the  house,  she  saw  his  lamp  on  the  table,  and 
himself  reading  the  Spectator  before  a  wood  fire  1 
Recalling  all  that,  she  remembered  the  happy 
little  breath  of  laughter  which  had  caught  her. 
"  If  it  wasn't  so  perfectly  sweet  and  beautiful,  it 
would  be  the  most  comic  thing  in  the  world !  "  she 
had  said  to  herself. 

A  telegram  from  Jimmy  Urquhart  came  that 
night  just  before  dinner.  "  Arriving  to-morrow 
say  ten-thirty  for  an  hour  or  so,  Urquhart."  It 
was  sent  from  St.  James's  Street.  Lancelot  had 
said,  "  Stout  fellow,"  and  James  took  it  quite 
well.  She  herself  remembered  her  feeling  of  an- 
noyance, how  clearly  she  foresaw  an  interrupted 
reverie  and  a  hampered  Sunday  —  and  also  how 
easily  he  had  falsified  her  prevision.  There  had 
been  an  animated  morning  of  garden  inspection, 
in  the  course  of  which  she  had  shown  him  (with 
a  softly  fluttering  heart  and  perhaps  enhanced 
colour)  the  hedged  oval  of  last  night's  romance; 
a  pony  race;  a  game  of  single  cricket  in  the  pad- 
dock—  Lancelot  badly  beaten;  lunch,  and  great 
debate  with  James  about  aeroplanes,  wherein 
Lancelot  showed  himself  a  bitter  and  unscrupu- 


n6  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

lous  adversary  of  his  parent.  Finally,  the  trial 
of  the  new  car:  an  engine  of  destruction  such  as 
Lancelot  had  never  dreamed  of.  It  was  admit- 
tedly too  high-powered  for  England;  you  were 
across  the  county  in  about  a  minute.  And  then  he 
had  departed  in  a  kind  of  thunderstorm  of  his 
own  making.  Lancelot,  preternaturally  moved, 
said  to  his  mother,  "  I  say,  Mamma,  what  a  man 
—  eh?"  She,  lightly,  "Yes,  isn't  he  wonder- 
ful?-'* and  Lancelot,  with  a  snort:  "A  man? 
Ten  rather  small  men  —  easily."  And  James, 
poor  James,  saw  nothing  kissable  in  that! 

It  hadn't  been  till  May  of  that  year  that  Lucy 
began  to  think  about  Urquhart  —  or  rather  it  was 
in  May  that  she  discovered  herself  to  be  thinking 
about  him.  Mabel  assisted  her  there.  Mabel 
was  in  Cadogan  Square  for  the  season,  and  the 
sisters  saw  much  of  each  other.  Now  it  hap- 
pened that  one  day  Mabel  had  seen  Lucy  with 
Urquhart  walking  down  Bond  Street,  at  noon  or 
thereabouts,  and  had  passed  by  on  the  other  side 
with  no  more  than  a  wave  of  the  hand.  It  was 
all  much  simpler  than  it  looked,  really,  because 
Lucy  had  been  to  James's  office,  which  was  in 
Cork  Street,  and  coming  away  had  met  Jimmy 
Urquhart  in  Burlington  Gardens.  He  had 


SUNDRY  ROMANTIC  EPISODES     117 

strolled  on  with  her,  and  was  telling  her  that  he 
had  been  waterplaning  on  Chichester  Harbour 
and  was  getting  rather  bitten  with  the  whole  busi- 
ness of  flight.  "  I'm  too  old,  I  know,  but  I'm 
still  ass  enough  to  take  risks.  I  think  I  shall  get 
the  ticket,"  he  had  said.  What  ticket?  The 
pilot's  ticket,  or  whatever  they  might  call  it.  "  I 
expect  you  are  too  old,"  she  had  said,  and  then  — 
"  How  old  are  you,  by  the  way?  "  He  told  her. 
"We  call  it  forty-two."  "Exactly  James's  age; 
and  exactly  ten  years  older  than  me.  Yes,  too 
old.  I  think  I  wouldn't." 

He  had  laughed.  "  I'm  certain  I  shall.  It  ap- 
peals to  me."  Then  he  had  told  her,  "  The  first 
time  I  saw  a  man  flying  I  assure  you  I  could  have 
shed  tears."  She  remembered  that  this  was  out 
of  his  power.  "Odd  thing!  What's  gravita- 
tion to  me,  or  I  to  gravitation?  A  commonplace 
whereby  I  walk  the  world.  Never  mind.  There 
was  that  young  man  breaking  a  law  of  this  planet. 
Well  —  that's  a  miracle.  I  tell  you  I  might  have 
wept.  And  then  I  said  to  myself,  "  My  man, 
you'll  do  this  or  perish."  Then  she:  "And 
have  you  done  it?  "  and  he :  "  I  have  not,  but  I'm 
going  to."  She  had  suddenly  said,  "  No,  please 
don't."  His  quick  look  at  her  she  remembered, 
and  the  suffusion  on  his  burnt  face.  "  Oh,  but  I 


n8  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

shall.  Do  you  wish  to  know  why?  Because  you 
don't  mean  it;  because  you  wouldn't  like  me  if  I 
obeyed  you."  She  said  gravely,  "  You  can't  know 
that."  u  Yes,  but  I  do.  You  like  me  —  assume 
that  —  "  Lucy  said,  "You  may";  and  he,  "I 
do.  You  like  me  because  I  am  such  as  I  am.  If 
I  obeyed  you  in  this  I  should  cease  to  be  such  as  I 
am  and  become  such  as  I  am  not  and  never  have 
been.  You  might  like  me  more  —  but  you  might 
not.  No,  that's  too  much  of  a  risk.  I  can't  af- 
ford it."  She  had  said,  "That's  absurd,"  but 
she  hadn't  thought  it  so. 

Mabel  came  to  her  for  lunch  and  rallied  her. 
"  I  saw  you,  my  dear.  But  I  wouldn't  spoil 
sport.  All  right  —  you  might  do  much  worse. 
He's  very  much  alive.  Anyhow,  he  doesn't  wear 
an  — "  Then  Lucy  was  hurt.  "  Oh,  Mabel, 
that's  horrid.  You  know  I  hate  you  to  talk  like 
that."  Mabel  stood  rebuked.  "  It  was  beastly 
of  me.  But  you  know  I  never  could  stand  his  eye- 
glass. It  is  what  they  call  anti-social  in  their 
novels.  Really,  you  might  as  well  live  in  the 
Crystal  Palace."  Then  she  held  out  her  hand, 
and  Lucy  took  it  after  some  hesitation.  But 
Mabel  was  irrepressible.  Almost  immediately 
she  had  jumped  into  the  fray  again,  with  "  You're 
both  going  to  his  place  in  Hampshire,  aren't 


SUNDRY  ROMANTIC  EPISODES     119 

you?  "  Then  Lucy  had  flushed;  and  Mabel  had 
given  her  a  queer  look. 

"  That's  all  right,"  she  presently  said.  "  He 
asked  us,  you  know,  but  we  can't.  I  hear  that 
Vera  Nugent  is  to  be  hostess.  I  rather  liked  her, 
though  of  course  you  can  never  tell  how  such 
copious  conversation  will  wear.  I  don't  think  she 
stopped  talking  for  a  single  moment.  Laurence 
thought  he  was  going  mad.  It  makes  him 
broody,  you  know,  like  a  hen.  He  rubs  his  ears, 
and  says  his  wattles  are  inflamed." 

It  was  either  that  day,  or  another  such  day  — 
it  really  doesn't  matter  which  day  it  was  —  that 
Mabel  drifted  into  the  subject  of  what  she  called 
"the  James  romance."  Did  James — ?  Had 
James — ?  And  where  were  we  standing  now? 
Lucy,  whose  feelings  upon  the  subject  were  more 
complicated  than  they  had  been  at  first,  was  not 
very  communicative;  but  she  owned  there  had 
been  repetitions.  Mabel,  who  was  desperately 
quick  to  notice,  judged  that  she  was  mildly  bored. 
"  I  see,"  she  said;  "  I  see.  But  —  that's  all." 

"  All !  "  cried  Lucy.     "  Yes,  indeed." 

Mabel  said  again,  "  I  see."  Lucy,  who  cer- 
tainly didn't  see,  was  silent;  and  then  Mabel  with 
appalling  candour  said,  "  I  suppose  you  would 
have  it  out  with  him  if  you  weren't  afraid  to." 


120  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

Lucy  was  able  to  cope  with  that  kind  of  thing. 
*'  Nothing  would  induce  me  to  do  it.  I  shouldn't 
be  able  to  lift  my  head  up  if  I  did.  It  would  not 
only  be  —  well,  horrible,  but  it  would  be  very 
cruel  as  well.  I  should  feel  myself  a  brute." 
On  Mabel's  shrug  she  was  stung  into  an  attack  of 
her  own.  "  And  whatever  you  may  say,  to  me,  I 
know  that  you  couldn't  bring  yourself  to  such  a 
point.  No  woman  could  do  it,  who  respected 
herself."  Mabel  had  the  worst  of  it  in  the  centre, 
but  by  a  flanking  movement  recovered  most  of 
the  ground.  She  became  very  vague.  She  said,  as 
if  to  herself,  "  After  all,  you  know,  you  may  be 
mistaken.  Perhaps  the  less  you  say  the  better." 

Mistaken!  And  "the  less  you  say"!  Lucy's 
grey  eyes  took  intense  direction.  "  Please  tell 
me  what  you  mean,  my  dear.  Do  you  think  I'm 
out  of  my  senses?  Do  you  really  think  I've 
imagined  it  all?  " 

"  No,  no,"  said  Mabel  quickly,  and  visibly  dis- 
turbed. "  No,  no,  of  course  I  don't.  I  really 
don't  know  what  I  meant.  It's  all  too  confusing 
for  simple  people  like  you  and  me.  Let's  talk 
about  something  else."  Lucy,  to  whom  the  mat- 
ter was  distasteful,  agreed;  but  the  thought 
persisted.  Mistaken  .  ,  ,  and  "  the  less  you 
say  .  .  .!" 


CHAPTER  X 
AX  A  WORLD'S  EDGE 

IT  was  after  that  queer  look,  after  her  too 
conscious  blush  that  she  began  to  envisage 
the  state  of  her  affairs.     She  was  going  to 
Martley  Thicket  for  Whitsuntide;  it  was  an  old 
engagement,  comparatively  old,  that  is;  she  did 
want  to   go,   and  now   she  knew  that  she  did. 
Well,  how  much  did  she  want  to  go  ?     Ought  she 
to  want  it?     What  had  happened? 

Questions  thronged  her  when  once  she  had 
opened  a  window.  What  did  it  matter  to  her 
whether  Urquhart  qualified  as  an  aviator  or  not? 
What  had  made  her  ask  him  not  to  do  it?  How 
had  she  allowed  him  to  say  "  Assume  that  you 
like  me  "  ?  The  short  dialogue  stared  at  her  in 
red  letters  upon  the  dark.  "  Assume  that  you 
like  me  — "  "  You  may  assume  it."  "  I  do." 
She  read  the  packed  little  sentences  over  and  over, 
and  studied  herself  with  care.  No,  honestly, 
nothing  jarred.  There  was  no  harm;  she  didn't 
feel  any  tarnish  upon  her.  And  yet  —  she  was 

121 


122  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

looking  forward  to  Martley  Thicket  with  a  livelier 
blood  than  she  had  felt  since  Easter  when  James 
had  kissed  her  in  the  shrouded  garden.  A 
livelier  blood?  Hazarding  the  looking-glass,  she 
thought  that  she  could  detect  a  livelier  iris  too. 
What  had  happened?  Well,  of  course,  the  an- 
swer to  that  question  was  involved  in  another: 
how  much  was  she  to  assume?  How  much  did 
Urquhart  like  her?  She  hoped,  against  convic- 
tion, that  she  might  have  answered  these  questions 
before  she  met  him  again  —  which  would  prob- 
ably be  at  Martley.  Just  now,  stoutly  bearing 
her  disapproval,  he  was  doubtless  at  Byfleet  or 
elsewhere  risking  his  neck.  She  answered  a  ques- 
tion possibly  arising  out  of  this  by  a  shrewd 
smile.  "  Of  course  I  don't  disapprove.  He 
knows  that.  I  shiver;  but  I  know  he's  perfectly 
right.  He  may  be  sure."  The  meeting  at 
Martley  would,  at  the  very  least,  be  extremely  in- 
teresting. She  left  it  there  for  the  moment. 

But  having  once  begun  to  pay  attention  to  such 
matters  as  these,  she  pursued  her  researches  —  in 
and  out  of  season.  It  was  a  busy  time  of  year, 
and  James  always  laid  great  stress  on  what  he 
called  "  the  duties  of  her  station."  She  must 
edge  up  crowded  stairways  behind  him,  stand  at 


AT  A  WORLD'S  EDGE  123 

his  side  in  hot  and  humming  rooms  where  the  head 
spun  with  the  effort  not  to  hear  what  other  people 
were  saying  —  so  much  more  important,  always, 
than  what  your  partner  was.  James's  height  and 
eyeglass  seemed  to  give  him  an  impartial  air  at 
these  dreadful  ceremonies.  Behind  his  glass  disk 
he  could  afford  to  be  impertinent.  And  he  was 
certainly  rude  enough  to  be  an  Under-Secretary. 
Without  that  shining  buckler  of  the  soul  he  would 
have  been  simply  nobody;  with  it,  he  was  a  demi- 
god. Here  then,  under  the  very  shadow  of  his 
immortality,  Lucy  pursued  her  researches.  What 
of  the  romantic,  hidden,  eponymous  James? 
Where  did  he  stand  now  in  her  regard? 

Since  Easter  at  Wycross,  James  had  not  been 
her  veiled  Eros,  but  the  possibilities  were  all  there. 
He  was  not  a  garden  god,  by  any  means,  nor  a 
genius  of  the  Spring.  January  and  Onslow 
Square  had  not  frozen  his  currents;  February  and 
the  Opera  House  had  heightened  his  passion. 
At  any  moment  he  might  resume  his  devotional 
habit  —  even  here  in  Carlton  House  Terrace. 
And  what  then  ?  Well  —  and  this  was  odd  — 
this  ought  to  have  produced  a  state  of  tension 
very  trying  to  the  nerves ;  and,  well  —  it  hadn't. 
That's  all.  At  that  very  party  in  Carlton  House 


i24  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

Terrace,  with  a  band  braying  under  the  stairs, 
and  a  fat  lord  shouting  in  her  ear,  her  secret  soul 
was  trembling  on  a  brink.  She  was  finding  out  to 
her  half-rueful  dismay  —  it  was  only  half  —  that 
she  was  prepared  to  be  touched,  prepared  to  be 
greatly  impressed,  but  not  prepared  to  be  thrilled 
as  she  had  been,  if  James  should  kiss  her  again. 
She  was  prepared,  in  fact,  to  present  —  as  states- 
men do  when  they  write  to  their  sovereign  —  her 
grateful,  humble  duty- — -and  no  more.  In  vain 

the  band  brayed,  in  vain  Lord  J ,  crimson  by 

her  ear,  roared  about  the  weather  in  the  West  of 
Ireland,  Lucy's  soul  was  peering  over  the  edge  of 
her  old  world  into  the  stretches  of  a  misty  new 
one. 

This  was  bad  enough,  and  occupied  her  through 
busy  nights  and  days ;  but  there  was  more  disturb- 
ing matter  to  come,  stirred  up  to  cloud  her  mind 
by  Mabel's  unwonted  discretion.  Mabel  had 
been  more  than  discreet.  She  had  been  fright- 
ened. Pushing  out  into  a  stream  of  new  surmise, 
she  had  suddenly  faltered  and  hooked  at  the  quay. 
Lucy  herself  was  at  first  merely  curious.  She  had 
no  doubts,  certainly  no  fears.  What  had  been 
the  matter  with  Mabel,  when  she  hinted  that  per- 
haps, after  all,  James  had  never  done  anything? 


AT  A  WORLD'S  EDGE  125 

What  could  Mabel  know,  or  guess,  or  suspect? 
Lucy  owned  to  herself,  candidly,  that  James  was 
incomprehensible.  After  thirteen  years,  or  was 
it  fourteen?  —  suddenly  —  with  no  warning 
symptoms,  to  plunge  into  such  devotion  as  never 
before,  when  everything  had  been  new,  and  he 
only  engaged  — !  Men  were  like  that  when 
they  were  engaged.  They  aren't  certain  of  one, 
and  leave  no  chances.  But  James,  even  as  an 
engaged  man,  had  always  been  certain.  He  had 
taken  her,  and  everything  else,  for  granted.  She 
remembered  how  her  sisters,  not  only  Mabel,  but 
the  critical  Agnes  (now  Mrs.  Riddell  in  the 
North),  had  discussed  him  and  found  him  too 
cocksure  to  be  quite  gallant.  Kissed  her?  Of 
course  he  had  kissed  her.  Good  Heavens.  Yes, 
but  not  as  he  had  that  night  at  the  Opera.  "  You 
darling!  You  darling!"  Now  James  had 
called  her  "  my  darling  "  as  often  as  you  please 
—  but  never  until  then  "you  darling."  There's 
a  world  of  difference.  Anybody  can  see  it. 

And  then  —  after  the  beautiful,  the  thrilling, 
the  deeply  touching  episode  —  the  moment  after 
it  —  there  was  the  old,  indifferent,  slightly  bored 
James  with  the  screwed  eye  and  the  disk.  Not  a 
hint,  not  a  ripple,  not  the  remains  of  a  flush.  It 


126  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

was  the  most  bewildering,  the  most  baffling  jig-saw 
of  a  business  she  had  ever  heard  of.  You  would 
have  said  that  he  was  two  quite  separate  people; 
you  might  have  said  —  Mabel  would  have  said 
at  once  —  that  James  had  had  nothing  to  do  with 
it. 

But  she  had  said  so!  The  discovery  stabbed 
Lucy  in  the  eyes  like  a  flash  of  lightning,  left  her 
blind  and  quivering,  with  a  swim  of  red  before  her 
hurt  vision.  That  was  why  Mabel  had  been 
frightened.  And  now  Lucy  herself  was  fright- 
ened. 

Francis  Lingen,  absurd  I  Mr.  Urquhart? 
Ah,  that  was  quite  another  thing.  She  grew  hot, 
she  grew  quite  cold,  and  suddenly  she  began  to  sob. 
Oh,  no,  no,  not  that.  A  flood  of  tossing  thoughts 
came  rioting  and  racing  in,  flinging  crests  of  foam, 
like  white  and  beaten  water.  She  for  a  time  was 
swept  about,  a  weed  in  this  fury  of  storm.  She 
was  lost,  effortless,  at  death's  threshold.  But  she 
awoke  herself  from  the  nightmare,  walked  herself 
about,  and  reason  returned.  It  was  nonsense,  un- 
wholesome nonsense.  Why,  that  first  time,  he 
was  in  the  library  with  James  and  Francis  Lingen, 
his  second  visit  to  the  house !  Why,  when  she  was 
at  the  Opera  he  had  been  at  Peltry  with  the 


AT  A  WORLD'S  EDGE  127 

Mabels.  And  as  for  Wycross,  he  had  wired  from 
St.  James's  in  the  afternoon,  and  come  on  the  next 
day.  Absurd  —  and  thank  God  for  it.  And 
poor  Francis  Lingen!  She  could  afford  to  laugh 
at  that.  Francis  Lingen  was  as  capable  of  kissing 
the  Duchess  of  Westbury  —  at  whose  horrible 
party  she  had  been  the  other  night  —  as  herself. 

She  felt  very  safe,  and  enormously  relieved. 
So  much  so  that  she  could  afford  herself  the  re- 
flection that  if  hardihood  had  been  all  that  was 
wanting,  Jimmy  Urquhart  would  have  had  plenty 
and  to  spare.  Oh,  yes,  indeed.  But  —  thank 
God  again  —  he  was  a  gentleman  if  ever  there 
was  one.  Nobody  but  a  gentleman  could  afford 
to  be  so  simple  in  dealing. 

Having  worked  all  this  out,  she  felt  that  her 
feet  at  least  were  on  solid  ground.  A  spirit  of 
adventure  was  renewed  in  her,  and  a  rather  un- 
fortunate contretemps  provoked  it.  Before  she 
knew  where  she  was,  she  was  up  to  the  neck,  as 
Urquhart  would  have  said,  in  a  turbid  stream. 

Francis  Lingen,  that  elegant  unfortunate,  was 
certainly  responsible,  if  you  could  call  one  so  ten- 
tative and  clinging  responsible  for  anything.  He 
had  proposed  the  Flower  Show,  to  which  she  had 
been,  as  an  earnest  gardener,  early  in  the  morn- 


128  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

ing,  by  herself,  with  a  note-book.  She  did  not 
want  to  go  with  him  at  all;  and  moreover  she  had 
an  appointment  to  meet  James  at  a  wedding  affair 
in  Queen's  Gate.  However,  being  ridiculously 
amiable  where  the  pale-haired  hectic  was  con- 
cerned, go  she  did,  and  sat  about  at  considerable 
length.  He  had  only  cared  to  look  at  the  sweet- 
peas,  his  passion  of  the  hour,  and  urged  a  chair 
upon  her  that  he  might  the  better  do  what  he 
really  liked,  look  at  her  and  talk  about  himself. 
So  he  did,  and  read  her  a  poem,  and  made  great 
play  with  his  tenderness,  his  dependence  upon  her 
judgment  and  his  crosses  with  the  world.  He 
pleaded  for  tea,  which,  ordered,  did  not  come; 
then  hunted  for  the  motor,  which  finally  she  found 
for  herself.  She  arrived  late  at  Queen's  Gate; 
the  eyeglass  glared  in  horror.  James,  indeed, 
was  very  cross.  What  any  chance  victim  of  his 
neighbourhood  may  have  endured  is  not  to  be 
known.  So  far  as  Lucy  could  see  he  did  not  open 
his  mouth  once  while  he  was  there.  He  refused 
all  nourishment  with  an  angry  gleam,  and  seemed 
wholly  bent  upon  making  her  self-conscious,  un- 
comfortable and,  finally,  indignant.  Upon  this 
goodly  foundation  he  reared  his  mountain  of  af- 
front. 


AT  A  WORLD'S  EDGE  129 

He  made  himself  a  monument  of  matter-of-fact 
impassivity  during  the  drive  home.  His  arms 
were  folded,  he  stared  out  of  window;  she  thought 
once  she  heard  him  humming  an  air.  But  he 
didn't  smoke,  as  he  certainly  would  have  done  had 
relations  been  easy.  He  kept  her  at  a  distance, 
but  not  aggressively. 

Lucy  was  by  this  time  very  much  annoyed. 
Her  apologies  had  been  frozen  at  the  front  by  his 
angry  glare.  She  had  no  intention  now  of  re- 
newing them,  nor  did  she  care  to  justify  herself, 
as  she  might  have  done,  by  pointing  out  that, 
while  she  was  half-an-hour  late,  he  was  probably 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  too  early.  This  would  have 
been  a  safe  venture,  for  his  fussiness  over  an  ap- 
pointment and  tendency  to  be  beforehand  with  it 
were  quite  well  known  to  himself.  She  kept  the 
best  face  she  could  upon  the  miserable  affair,  but 
was  determined  that  she  would  force  a  crisis  at 
home,  come  what  might. 

Arrived  at  Onslow  Square,  James  strode  into 
the  library  and  shut  the  door  behind  him.  When 
Crewdson  was  disposed  of  on  his  numerous  af- 
fairs, Lucy  followed  her  lord.  He  turned,  he 
stared,  and  waited  for  her  to  speak. 

Lucy  said,  "  I  think  that  you  must  be  sorry  that 


130  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

you  have  treated  me  so.  I  feel  it  very  much,  and 
must  ask  you  how  you  justify  it." 

James  did  his  best  to  an  easy  calm.  "  Apolo- 
gies should  be  in  the  air.  I  should  have  looked 
for  one  myself  an  hour  or  so  ago." 

"  You  should  have  had  it,"  she  said,  "  if  you 
had  given  me  time.  But  you  stared  me  out  of 
countenance  the  moment  I  came  in.  Anger  be- 
fore you  had  even  heard  me  is  not  a  nice  thing  to 
face." 

James  turned  pale.  He  used  his  most  incisive 
tones.  "  I  am  ready  to  hear  your  explanation. 
Perhaps  I  had  better  say  that  I  know  it." 

Lucy  showed  him  angry  eyes.  "If  you  know 
it,  there  is  no  need  for  me  to  trouble  you  with  it. 
You  must  also  know  that  it  isn't  easy  to  get  away 
from  a  great  crowd  in  a  minute." 

But  he  seemed  not  to  hear  her.  He  had 
another  whip  in  waiting,  which  nothing  could  have 
kept  him  from  the  use  of.  "  I  think  that  I  must 
trouble  you,  rather.  I  think  I  should  be  relieved 
by  hearing  from  you  where  the  crowd  was  of 
which  you  were  one  —  or  two,  indeed." 

She  discovered  that  he  was  white  with  rage, 
though  she  had  never  seen  him  so  before. 
"What  do  you  mean,  James?"  she  said  —  and 


AT  A  WORLD'S  EDGE  131 

he,  "  I  know  that  you  were  at  the  Flower  Show. 
You  were  there  with  Lingen." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lucy,  "  I  was  indeed.  And  why 
shouldn't  I  be?" 

"  I  have  told  you  before  this  what  my  views 
are  about  that.  I  don't  intend  to  repeat  them,  at 
present." 

"  I  think  you  must  be  mad,"  said  Lucy.  "  Do 
you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  object  to  Francis 
Lingen  to  that  extent  —  to  the  extent  of  such  a 
scene  as  this?  " 

He  faced  her  from  his  height.  "  I  do  mean 
that." 

"  Then,"  she  said,  out  of  herself,  "  you  are  in- 
sulting me.  I  don't  think  you  can  intend  to  do 
that.  And  I  should  like  to  say  also  that  you, 
of  all  the  men  in  the  world,  are  the  last  person  to 
be  jealous  or  suspicious  of  anybody  where  I  am 
concerned." 

She  hadn't  meant  to  say  that;  but  when  she  saw 
that  he  took  it  as  a  commonplace  of  marital  ethics, 
she  determined  to  go  further  still. 

He  took  it,  in  fact,  just  so.  It  seemed  to  him 
what  any  wife  would  say  to  any  indignant  hus- 
band. "  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  "  you  don't 
quite  follow  me.  I  agree  with  you  that  I  should 


132  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

be  the  last  person;  but  I  beg  to  point  out  to  you 
that  I  should  also  be  the  first  person.  And  I  will 
go  on  to  add,  if  you  will  excuse  me,  that  I  should 
be  the  only  person." 

"  No  person  at  all,"  said  Lucy,  "  has  the  right 
or  the  reason  to  suspect  me  of  anything,  or  to  be 
jealous  of  any  of  my  acquaintance.  You  didn't 
understand  me :  I  suppose  because  you  are  too 
angry.  What  I  meant  you  to  remember  was  how 
much,  how  very  much,  you  are  bound  to  believe 
in  me  —  now  of  all  times  in  our  life." 

Here  then  was  a  Psyche  with  the  lamp  in  her 
hand.  Here  was  Lucy  on  the  limit  of  a  world  un- 
known. Here  she  stood,  at  her  feet  the  tufted 
grasses  and  field  herbs,  dusty,  homely,  friendly 
things,  which  she  knew.  Beyond  her,  beyond  the 
cliff's  edge  were  the  dim  leagues  of  a  land  and 
sea  unknown.  What  lay  out  there  beyond  her  in 
the  mist?  What  mountain  and  forest  land  lay 
there,  what  quiet  islands,  what  sounding  mains? 

But  it  was  done  now.  James  gazed  blankly,  but 
angrily,  puzzled  into  her  face. 

"  I  haven't  the  faintest  notion  what  you  mean," 
he  said.  Evidently  he  had  not. 

She  must  go  on,  though  she  hated  it.  *  You 
are  very  surprising.  I  can  hardly  think  you  are 


AT  A  WORLD'S  EDGE  133 

serious.  Let  me  remind  you  of  the  opera  —  of 
the  Walkure." 

He  gave  his  mind  to  it,  explored  the  past,  and 
so  entirely  failed  to  understand  her  that  he  looked 
rather  foolish.  "  I  remember  that  we  were 
there."  Then  he  had  a  flash  of  light  —  and  shed 
it  on  her,  God  knows.  "  I  remember  also  that 
Lingen  was  in  the  box." 

"  Oh,  Lingen  I  Are  you  mad  on  — ?  Do  you 
not  remember  that  you  were  there  before  Lin- 
gen?" 

"  Yes,  I  do  remember  it."  He  stood,  poor 
fool,  revealed.  Lucy's  voice  rang  clear. 

"  Very  well.  If  that  is  all  that  your  memory 
brings  you,  I  have  nothing  more  to  say." 

She  left  him  swiftly,  and  went  upstairs  in  the 
possession  of  an  astounding  truth,  but  rapt  with  it 
in  such  a  whirlwind  of  wonder  that  she  could  do 
no  more  than  clutch  it  to  her  bosom  as  she  flew. 
She  sent  out  word  that  she  was  not  coming  down 
to  dinner,  and  locked  herself  in  with  her  truth,  to 
make  what  she  could  of  it. 


CHAPTER  XI 

ANTEROS 

MACARTNEY  was  no  fool  in  his  own 
world,  where  a  perfectly  clear  idea  of 
what  you  want  to  do  combined  with  a 
nonchalant  manner  of  "  Take  it  or  leave  it "  had 
always  carried  him  through  the  intricacies  of  busi- 
ness. If  he  was  a  fool  in  supposing  that  pre- 
cisely the  same  armoury  would  defend  him  at 
home,  there  is  this  excuse  for  him,  that  Lucy  had 
encouraged  him  to  suppose  it.  When  she  dashed 
from  the  room  at  this  recent  moment  he  sat  for 
some  time  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  his  foolscap; 
but  presently  found  himself  reading  the  same  sen- 
tence over  and  over  again  without  understanding 
one  word  in  it.  He  dropped  the  document,  rose 
and  picked  himself  out  a  cigar,  with  deliberation 
and  attention  disproportionate  to  the  business. 
He  cut,  stabbed  and  lighted  the  cigar,  and  stood 
by  the  mantelpiece,  smoking  and  gazing  out  of 
window. 

He  had  overdone  it.     He  had  stretched  regime 
i34 


ANTEROS  135 

too  far.  There  had  been  a  snap.  Now,  just 
where  had  he  failed?  Was  it  with  Francis  Lin- 
gen?  Perhaps.  He  must  admit,  though,  that 
some  good  had  come  out  of  the  trouble.  He  felt 
reassured  about  Francis  Lingen,  because,  as  he 
judged,  women  don't  get  angry  in  cases  of  the  kind 
unless  the  husband  has  nothing  to  be  angry  about. 
He  felt  very  world-wise  and  shrewd  as  he  pro- 
pounded this.  Women  like  their  husbands  to 
be  jealous,  especially  if  they  are  jealous  with 
reason.  Because,  then,  they  say  to  themselves, 
"  Well,  anyhow,  he  loves  me  still.  I  have  him  to 
fall  back  upon,  at  all  events."  Capital!  He 
gave  a  short  guffaw,  and  resumed  his  cigar.  But 
Lucy  was  angry :  obviously  because  he  had  wasted 
good  jealousy  on  a  mere  fancy.  Damn  it,  he  had 
overdone  it.  The  next  thing  —  if  he  didn't  look 
out  —  would  be  that  she  would  give  him  some- 
thing to  be  jealous  of.  He  must  calm  her  — 
there  would  be  no  difficulty  in  that,  no  loss  of  pres- 
tige. 

Prestige:  that  was  the  thing  you  wanted  to 
maintain.  Discipline  be  jiggered  —  that  might 
do  mischief  • —  if  you  drove  it  too  hard.  The  fact 
was,  he  was  a  little  too  sharp  with  Lucy.  She 
was  a  dear,  gentle  creature,  and  no  doubt  one  fell 


136  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

into  the  habit  of  pushing  a  willing  horse.  He 
could  see  it  all  now  perfectly.  He  had  been  put 
out  when  he  arrived  at  the  Marchants'  too  early 
• —  she  was  not  there ;  and  then  that  old  fool  Vane 
with  his,  "  Saw  your  wife  at  the  Chelsea  thing, 
with  Lingen.  They  looked  very  settled  " ;  that 
had  put  the  lid  on.  That  was  how  it  was;  and  he 
had  been  too  sharp.  Well,  one  must  make  mis- 
takes — 

He  wondered  what  she  had  meant  about  the 
Opera.  Why  had  she  harped  upon  that  string? 
"  You  were  there  before  Francis  Lingen,"  she 
had  said  —  well,  and  then  —  she  had  been  furious 
with  him.  He  had  said,  "  I  know  that  I  was," 
and  she,  "  If  that  is  all  your  memory  brings 
you  — "  and  off  she  went.  He  smoked  hard  — 
lifted  his  hand  and  dropped  it  smartly  to  his  man- 
telpiece. No;  that  was  a  thing  no  man  could 
fathom.  A  Lucyism  —  quite  clear  to  herself,  no 
doubt.  Well,  he'd  leave  that  alone.  The  more 
one  tried  to  bottom  those  waters,  the  less  one 
fished  up.  But  he  would  make  peace  with  her 
after  dinner. 

He  heard,  "  Mrs.  Macartney  is  not  dining  this 
evening;  she  has  a  bad  headache,  and  doesn't  wish 
to  be  disturbed,"  received  it  with  a  curt  nod,  and 


ANTEROS  137 

accepted  it  simply.  Better  to  take  women  at  their 
word.  Her  troubles  would  have  simmered  down 
by  the  morning,  whereas  if  he  were  to  go  up  now, 
one  of  two  things :  either  she'd  be  angry  enough  to 
let  him  batter  at  the  door  to  no  purpose  —  and 
feel  an  ass  for  his  pains;  or  she  would  let  him  in, 
and  make  a  fuss  —  in  which  case  he  would  feel 
still  more  of  an  ass.  "  Ask  Mrs.  Macartney  if  I 
can  do  anything,"  he  had  said  to  Smithers,  and 
was  answered,  "  I  think  Mrs.  Macartney  is  asleep, 
sir."  He  hoped  she  was.  That  would  do  her  a 
world  of  good. 

Morning.  In  the  breakfast-room  he  faced  a 
Lucy  self-possessed,  with  guarded  eyes,  and,  if  he 
could  have  seen  it,  with  implied  reproach  stiffen- 
ing every  line  of  her.  Her  generosity  gratified 
him,  but  should  have  touched  him  keenly.  She 
came  to  him  at  once,  and  put  up  her  face.  "  I'm 
sorry  I  was  so  cross,  James."  His  immediate 
feeling,  I  say,  was  one  of  gratification.  That  was 
all  right.  She  had  come  in.  To  that  succeeded 
a  wave  of  kindness.  He  dropped  his  glass,  and 
took  her  strongly  in  his  arms.  "  Dearest,  I  be- 
haved very  badly.  I'm  truly  sorry."  He  kissed 
her,  and  for  a  moment  she  clung  to  him,  but 
avoided  his  further  kisses.  Yet  he  had  kissed  her 


138  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

as  a  man  should.  She  had  nothing  more  to  say, 
but  he  felt  it  her  due  that  he  should  add  something 
while  yet  he  held  her.  "  As  for  poor  Francis  — 
I  know  that  I  was  absurd  —  I  admit  it  frankly." 
He  felt  her  shake  and  guessed  her  indignation. 
"  You'll  believe  me,  dear.  You  know  I  don't  like 
owning  myself  a  fool."  Then  she  had  looked  up, 
still  in  his  arms  —  "  Why  should  you  be  so 
stupid?  How  can  you  possibly  be?  You,  of  all 
people!  "  There  she  was  again. 

But  he  intended  to  make  peace  once  and  for 
all.  "  My  dearest,  I  can't  be  more  abject,  for  the 
life  of  me.  I  have  confessed  that  I  was  an 
abounding  ass.  Please  to  believe  in  me.  Ask 
Francis  Lingen  to  tea  for  a  month  of  days  —  and 
not  a  word  from  me  I  " 

She  had  laughed,  rather  scornfully,  and  tried  to 
free  herself.  He  kissed  her  again  before  he  let 
her  go.  Almost  immediately  he  resumed  his 
habits  —  eyeglass,  Morning  Post,  and  scraps  of 
comment.  He  made  an  effort  and  succeeded,  he 
thought,  in  being  himself.  "  Johnny  Mallet  gives 
another  party  at  the  Bachelors  to-day.  I  believe 
I  go.  Has  he  asked  you?  He  means  to.  He's 
a  tufthunter  —  but  he  gets  tufts.  ...  I  see  that 
the  Fathers  in  God  are  raving  about  the  Tithe 


ANTEROS  139 

Bill.  I  shall  have  Jasper  Mellen  at  me  —  and  the 
Dean  too.  Do  you  remember  —  did  you  ever 
hear,  I  wonder,  of  Box  and  Cox?  They  have  a 
knack  of  coming  to  me  on  the  same  day.  Once  they 
met  on  the  doorstep,  and  each  of  them  turned  and 
fled  away.  It  must  have  been  very  comic.  .  .  ." 
Lucy  busied  herself  with  her  letters  and  her  coffee- 
cups.  She  wished  that  she  did  not  feel  so  ruffled, 
but  —  a  walk  would  do  her  good.  She  would  go 
into  the  Park  presently,  and  look  at  the  tulips  and 
lilacs.  It  was  horrid  to  feel  so  stuffy  on  such  a 
perfect  day.  How  long  to  Whitsuntide?  That 
was  to  be  heavenly  —  if  James  didn't  get  inspired 
by  the  dark!  Something  would  have  to  be  pre- 
pared for  that.  In  her  eyes,  sedate  though  they 
were,  there  lurked  a  gleam:  the  beacon-fire  of  a 
woman  beleaguered.  Certainly  Jimmy  Urquhart 
liked  her.  He  had  said  that  she  liked  him. 
Well,  and  so  she  did.  Very  much  indeed. 

James  went,  forgiven,  to  his  Bishops  and  Deans, 
and  to  lunch  with  his  Johnny  Mallet  and  the 
tufted.  Lucy,  her  household  duties  done,  arrayed 
herself  for  the  tulips  of  the  Park. 

The  grey  watches  of  the  night  with  their  ache 
and  moments  of  panic,  the  fever  and  fret,  the 
wearing  down  of  rage  and  emptying  of  wonder 


i4o  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

and  dismay,  the  broken  snatches  of  dream-sleep, 
and  the  heavy  slumber  which  exhaustion  finally 
gave  her  —  all  this  had  brought  downstairs,  to  be 
kissed,  embraced  and  forgiven,  a  Lucy  disil- 
lusioned and  tired  to  death,  but  schooled  to  pa- 
tience. Her  conclusion  of  the  whole  matter  now 
was  that  it  was  James  who  had  indeed  loved  her 
in  the  dark,  with  an  access  of  passion  which  he  had 
never  shown  before  and  could  drop  apparently  as 
fitfully  as  he  won  to  it,  and  also  with  a  fulness  of 
satisfaction  to  himself  which  she  did  not  pretend 
to  understand.  It  was  James  and  no  other,  sim- 
ply because  any  other  was  unthinkable.  Such 
things  were  not  done.  Jimmy  Urquhart  —  and 
what  other  could  she  imagine  it?  —  was  out  of  the 
question.  She  had  finally  brushed  him  out  as  a 
girl  flecks  the  mirror  in  a  cotillon.  It  was  James; 
but  why  he  had  been  so  moved,  how  moved,  how 
so  lightly  satisfied,  how  his  conduct  at  other  times 
could  be  fitted  in  —  really,  it  didn't  matter  two 
straws.  It  meant  nothing  but  a  moment's  silli- 
ness, it  led  to  nothing,  it  mended  nothing  —  and 
it  broke  nothing.  Her  soul  was  her  own,  her 
heart  was  her  own.  It  was  amiable  of  him,  she 
dared  say,  but  had  become  rather  a  bore.  She 
conceived  of  a  time  at  hand  when  she  might  have 


ANTEROS  141 

to  be  careful  that  he  shouldn't.  But  just  now  she 
wouldn't  make  a  fuss.  Anything  but  that.  He 
was  within  his  rights,  she  supposed;  and  let  it  rest 
at  that.  So  arrayed,  she  faced  him,  and,  to  let 
nothing  be  omitted  on  her  part,  she  herself  apolo- 
gised for  what  had  been  his  absurd  fault,  and  so 
won  as  much  from  him  as  he  could  ever  have  given 
anybody.  As  for  Francis  Lingen  —  she  had  not 
once  given  him  a  thought. 

Now,  however,  James  away  to  his  Bishops,  she 
arrayed  herself  anew,  and  went  out,  fraiche  et  dis- 
pose, into  the  Park,  intending  that  she  should  see 
Urquhart.  And  so  she  did.  He  was  on  horse- 
back and  dismounted  the  moment  he  saw  her. 
He  was  glad  to  see  her,  she  could  tell,  but  did  not 
insist  upon  his  gladness.  He  admired  her,  she 
could  see,  but  took  his  admiration  as  a  matter  of 
course.  She  wore  champagne-colour.  She  had 
snakeskin  shoes,  a  black  hat.  She  was  excited, 
and  had  colour;  her  eyes  shone. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  here  you  are  then.  That's 
a  good  thing.  I  began  to  give  you  up." 

"How  did  you  know — ?"  She  stopped,  and 
bit  her  lip. 

"  I  didn't.  But  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you.  You 
look  very  well.  Where  are  you  going?  " 


142  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

She  nodded  her  direction.  "  Tulips.  Just 
over  there.  I  always  pilgrimise  them." 

"  All  right.  Let  us  pilgrimise  them.  Tulips 
are  like  a  drug.  A  little  is  exquisite,  and  you  are 
led  on.  Excess  brings  no  more  enchantment,  only 
nausea.  You  buy  a  million  and  plant  your  wood- 
land, and  the  result  is  horror.  A  hundred  would 
have  been  heavenly.  That's  what  I  find." 

She  had  mockery  in  her  look,  gleams  of  it  shot 
with  happiness  to  be  there.  "  Is  that  what  you've 
done  at  Martley?  I  shan't  praise  you  when  I  see 
it.  I  hate  too-muchness." 

"  So  do  I,  but  always  too  late.  I  ought  to 
learn  from  you,  whose  frugality  is  part  of  your 
charm.  One  can't  imagine  too  much  Lucy." 

"  Ah,  don't  be  sure,"  she  cautioned  him. 
"  Ask  James." 

"  I  shall.  I'm  quite  equal  to  that.  I'll  ask 
him  to-day.  He's  to  be  at  an  idiotic  luncheon,  to 
which  I'm  fool  enough  to  be  going.  Marchion- 
esses and  all  the  rest  of  it." 

"  How  can  you  go  to  such  things  when  you 
might  be  —  flying?  " 

"Earning  your  displeasure?  Oh,  I  know,  I 
know.  I  didn't  know  how  to  refuse  Mallet.  He 


ANTEROS  143 

seemed  to  want  me.  I  was  flattered.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact  —  I  have  flown." 

"Alone?" 

"  Good  Lord,  no.  I  had  an  expert  there.  He 
let  me  have  the  levers.  I  had  an  illusion.  But 
I  always  do." 

44  Do  tell  me  your  illusion." 

"  I  thought  that  I  could  sing." 

"  You  did  sing,  I'm  sure." 

"  I  might  have.  One  miracle  the  more.  As 
for  the  machine  —  it  wasn't  a  machine,  it  was  a 
living  spirit." 

"  A  male  spirit  or  a  female  spirit?  " 

"  Female,  I  think.  Anyhow  I  addressed  it  as 
such." 

"What  did  you  say  to  her?" 

11 1  said,  '  You  darling.'  " 

That  startled  her,  if  you  like!  She  looked 
frightened,  then  coloured  deeply.  Urquhart 
seemed  full  of  his  own  thoughts. 

"  How's  Lancelot?  "  he  asked  her. 

That  helped  her.  "  Oh,  he  delights  me. 
Another  '  living  spirit.'  He  never  fails  to  ask 
after  you." 

"  Stout  chap." 


144  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

"  He  harps  on  your  story.  The  first  you 
ever  told  us.  This  time  he  put  in  his  postscript, 
*  How  is  Wives  and  Co?  ' 

He  nodded.  "  Very  good.  I  begat  an  im- 
mortal. That  tale  will  never  die.  He'll  tell  it 
to  his  grandchildren." 

They  stood,  or  strolled  at  ease,  by  the  railings, 
she  within  them,  he  holding  his  horse  outside 
them.  The  tulips  were  adjudged,  names  taken, 
colours  approved. 

"  You'll  see  mine,"  he  said,  "  in  ten  days.  Do 
you  realise  that?  " 

She  was  radiant.  "  I  should  think  so.  That 
has  simply  got  to  happen.  Are  you  going  to  have 
other  people  there?  " 

"  Vera,"  he  said,  "  and  her  man,  and  I  rather 
think  Considine,  her  man's  brother.  Fat  and 
friendly,  with  a  beard,  and  knows  a  good  deal 
about  machines,  one  way  and  another.  I  want  his 
advice  about  hydroplanes,  among  other  things. 
You'll  like  him." 

"Why  shall  I  like  him?" 

"  Because  he's  himself.  He  has  no  manners 
at  all,  only  feelings.  Nice  feelings.  That's 
much  better  than  manners." 

"  Yes,    I    dare    say  they   are."     She   thought 


ANTEROS  145 

about  it.  "  There's  a  difference  between  manner 
and  manners." 

11  Oh,  rather.  The  more  manner  you  have  the 
less  manners." 

"  Yes,  I  meant  that.  But  even  manners  don't 
imply  feelings,  do  they?  " 

"  I  was  going  to  say,  Never.  But  that  wouldn't 
be  true.  You  have  charming  manners :  your  feel- 
ings' clothes  and  a  jolly  good  fit." 

"  How  kind  you  are."  She  was  very  pleased. 
"  Now,  you  —  what  shall  I  say?  " 

"  You  might  say  that  I  have  no  manners,  and 
not  offend  me.  I  have  no  use  for  them.  But  I 
have  feelings,  sometimes  nice,  sometimes  hor- 
rid." 

"  I  am  sure  that  you  couldn't  be  horrid." 

"  Don't  be  sure,"  he  said  gravely.  "  I  had 
rather  you  weren't.  I  have  done  amiss  in  my  day, 
much  amiss;  and  I  shall  do  it  again." 

She  looked  gently  at  him;  her  mouth  showed 
the  Luini  compassion,  long-drawn  and  long-suffer- 
ing, because  it  understood.  "  Don't  say  that.  I 
don't  think  you  mean  it." 

He  shook  his  head,  but  did  not  cease  to  watch 
her.  "  Oh,  but  I  mean  it.  When  I  want  a  thing, 
I  try  to  get  it.  When  I  see  my  way,  I  follow  it. 


i46  LOVE  AND  LUCY, 

It  seems  like  a  law  of  Nature.     And  I  suppose 
it  is  one.     What  else  is  instinct?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  but  I  suppose  we  have  feel- 
ings in  us  so  that  we  may  realise  that  other  people 
have  them  too." 

'  Yes,  yes  —  or  that  we  may  give  them  to  those 
who  haven't  got  any  of  their  own." 

They  had  become  grave,  and  he,  at  least, 
moody.  Lucy  dared  not  push  enquiry.  She  had 
the  ardent  desire  to  help  and  the  instinct  to  make 
things  comfortable  on  the  surface,  which  all 
women  have,  and  which  makes  nurses  of  them. 
But  she  discerned  trouble  ahead.  Urquhart's 
startling  frankness  had  alarmed  her  before,  and 
she  didn't  trust  herself  to  pass  it  off  if  it  flashed 
once  too  often.  Flashes  like  that  lit  up  the  soul, 
and  not  of  the  lamp-holder  only. 

They  parted,  with  unwillingness  on  both  sides, 
at  Prince's  Gate,  and  Lucy  sped  homewards  with 
feet  that  flew  as  fast  as  her  winged  thoughts. 
That  "  You  darling  "  was  almost  proof  positive. 
And  yet  he  had  been  at  Peltry  that  night;  and  yet 
he  couldn't  have  dared !  Now  even  as  she  uttered 
that  last  objection  she  faltered;  for  when  daring 
came  into  question,  what  might  he  not  dare? 
Remained  the  first.  He  had  been  at  Peltry,  she 


ANTEROS  14? 

knew,  because  she  had  been  asked  to  meet  him 
there  and  had  refused  on  the  opera's  account. 
Besides,  she  had  heard  about  his  riding  horses  as 
if  they  were  motors,  and  —  Here  she  stood  still ; 
and  found  herself  shaking.  That  letter  —  in  that 
letter  of  Mabel's  about  his  visit  to  Peltry,  had 
there  not  been  something  of  a  call  to  London, 
and  return  late  for  dinner?  And  the  opera  began 
at  half-past  six.  What  was  the  date  of  his  call 
to  London?  Could  she  find  that  letter?  And 
should  she  hunt  for  it,  or  leave  it  vague?  And 
then  she  thought  of  Martley.  And  then  she 
blushed. 


CHAPTER  XII 

MARTLEY  THICKET  '(l) 

URQUHART  was  a  man  of  explosive  ac- 
tion and  had  great  reserve  of  strength. 
He  was  moved  by  flashes  of  insight,  and 
was  capable  of  long-sustained  flights  of  vehement 
effort;  but  his  will-power  was  nourished  entirely  by 
those  moments  of  intense  prevision,  which  showed 
him  a  course,  and  all  the  stages  of  it.  The  mis- 
takes he  made,  and  they  were  many  and  grievous, 
were  mostly  due  to  overshooting  his  mark,  some- 
times to  underrating  it.  In  the  headlong  and  not 
too  scrupulous  adventure  he  was  now  upon,  both 
defects  were  leagued  against  him. 

When  he  first  saw  Lucy  at  her  dinner-party,  he 
said  to  himself,  "  That's  a  sweet  woman.  I  shall 
fall  in  love  with  her."  To  say  as  much  was  proof 
that  he  had  already  done  so ;  but  it  was  the  sudden 
conviction  of  it  which  inspired  him,  filled  him  with 
effervescent  nonsense  and  made  him  the  best  of 
company,  for  a  dinner-party.  Throughout  it,  at 
his  wildest  and  most  irresponsible,  his  fancy  and 

148 


MARTLEY  THICKET  (i)          149 

imagination  were  at  work  upon  her.  He  read  her 
to  the  soul,  or  thought  so. 

Chance,  and  Lancelot,  gave  him  the  chart  of 
the  terrain.  The  switch  at  the  drawing-room 
door  gave  him  his  plan.  The  opportunity  came, 
and  he  dared  to  take  it.  He  marked  the  effect 
upon  her.  It  was  exactly  what  he  had  foreseen. 
He  saw  her  eyes  humid  upon  Macartney,  her  hand 
at  rest  on  his  arm.  Jesuitry  palliated  what  threat- 
ened to  seem  monstrous,  even  to  him.  "  God 
bless  her,  I  drive  her  to  her  man.  What's  the 
harm  in  that?  " 

So  he  went  on  —  once  more,  and  yet  again ;  and 
in  the  meantime  by  daylight  and  by  more  honest 
ways  he  gained  her  confidence  and  her  liking.  He 
saw  no  end  to  the  affair  so  prosperously  begun,  and 
didn't  trouble  about  one.  All  he  cared  about  just 
now  were  two  courtships  —  the  vicarious  in  the 
dark,  and  the  avowed  of  the  daylight. 

He  intended  to  go  on.  He  was  full  of  it  —  in 
the  midst  of  his  other  passions  of  the  hour,  such 
as  this  of  the  air.  He  was  certain  of  his  direction, 
as  certain  as  he  had  ever  been.  But  now  his  mis- 
takes and  miscalculations  began.  He  had  mis- 
taken his  Lucy,  and  his  Macartney  too. 

What  he  didn't  know  about  Macartney,  Lucy 


150  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

did  know;  what  he  didn't  know  about  Lucy  was 
that  she  had  found  out  James.  James  as  Eros 
wouldn't  do,  chiefly  because  such  conduct  on 
James's  part  would  have  been  incredible.  Urqu- 
hart  didn't  know  it  would  be  incredible,  nor  did  he 
know  that  she  did. 

One  other  thing  he  didn't  know,  which  was  that 
Lucy  was  half  his  own  before  she  started  for 
Martley.  She,  in  fact,  didn't  know  it  either. 
She  had  been  his  from  the  moment  when  she  had 
asked  him  to  keep  out  of  the  air,  and  he  had  de- 
clined. 

All  this  is  necessary  matter,  because  in  the  light 
of  it  his  next  deliberated  move  in  his  game  was  a 
bad  mistake. 

On  the  night  before  she  was  expected  at  Mart- 
ley,  being  there  himself,  he  wrote  her  a  letter  to 
this  effect : 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Macartney:  To  my  dismay  and 
concern  I  find  that  I  can't  be  here  to  receive  you, 
nor  indeed  until  you  are  on  the  point  to  go  away. 
I  shall  try  hard  for  Sunday,  which  will  give  me 
one  day  with  you  —  better  to  me  than  a  thousand 
elsewhere.  Vera  will  be  my  curate.  Nothing 
will  be  omitted  which  will  show  you  how  much 


MARTLEY  THICKET  (i)          151 

Martley  owes  you,  or  how  much  I  am,  present  or 
absent,  yours, 

"  J.  U." 

That  letter  he  gave  to  Vera  Nugent  to  deliver 
to  Lucy.  Vera  wanted  to  know  what  it  was  all 
about. 

"  It's  to  say  that  I  can't  be  here,"  he  said. 
"  That  is  the  fact,  unfortunately." 

"  Why,  my  dear  Jimmy,  I  thought  you  adored 
her.  Isn't  the  poor  lady  the  very  latest?  " 

"  My  dear  girl,  I  do  adore  her.  Leave  it  at 
that.  It's  an  excellent  reason  for  not  being  here : 
the  best.  But  I'm  going  up  with  a  star,  which  is 
another  reason.  And  I  hope  to  be  here  on  Sun- 
day, which  is  the  most  I  can  afford  myself. 
Really,  that's  all.  But  you  like  her,  you  say;  or 
you  should." 

"  I  do  like  her.  She's  not  very  talkative  —  to 
me;  but  listens  well.  Considine  will  like  her. 
Listeners  are  rare  with  him,  poor  dear.  But  you 
move  me.  I  didn't  know  you  were  so  far  gone." 

"  Never  mind  how  far  I  am  gone,  provided  that 
I  go,"  said  Urquhart. 

"  Oh,  at  this  rate,  I  will  hasten  you.  I  can't 
be  bothered  with  a  cause  celebre.  But  what  am 


152  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

I  to  tell  the  lady?     You  must  be  practical,  my  fine 


man." 


"  Tell  her  that  I  was  sent  for  in  a  hurry.  Hint 
at  the  air  if  you  think  proper.  I  think  I  have  said 
all  that  is  necessary  in  the  note." 

The  Macartneys  were  expected  to  lunch.  Ur- 
quhart  left  his  house  at  noon,  driving  himself  in  a 
motor.  He  disappeared  in  the  forest,  but  didn't 
go  very  far. 

James  heard  of  his  host's  defection  with  im- 
passivity and  a  glance  of  his  eyeglass.  "  Won- 
der what  Jimmy  has  shied  off  for?"  he  said  to 
Lucy  through  the  dressing-room  door.  "  Aero- 
planing  or  royalty,  do  you  think?  The  s 

may  have  sent  for  him.  I  know  he  knows  them. 
But  it's  characteristic.  He  makes  a  fuss  about 
you,  so  that  you  think  you're  his  life  or  death;  and 
then  you  find  out  —  not  at  all !  You  simply  don't 
exist  —  that's  all.  What  do  you  think?  " 

"  I  don't  think  that  we  don't  exist,"  she  said. 
"  I  think  that  something  important  has  happened." 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  James,  "  one  had  got  into  the 
way  of  thinking  that  one  was  important  oneself. 
D— d  cool,  I  call  it." 

There  had  been  a  moment  when  Lucy  knew 


MARTLEY  THICKET  (i)          153 

anger;  but  that  had  soon  passed.  She  knew  that 
she  was  bitterly  disappointed,  and  found  a  rueful 
kind  of  happiness  in  discovering  how  bitterly. 
She  had  reached  the  stage  where  complete  happi- 
ness seems  to  be  rooted  in  self-surrender.  In  a 
curious  kind  of  way  the  more  she  suffered  the  more 
surely  she  could  pinch  herself  on  the  chin  and  say, 
"  My  dear,  you  are  caught."  There  was  comfort 
in  this  —  and  Martley  itself,  house,  gardens, 
woodlands,  the  lake,  the  vistas  of  the  purple  wolds 
of  forest  country,  all  contributed  to  her  enchain- 
ing. Luncheon  passed  off  well  under  Vera  Nu- 
gent's  vivacious  brown  eyes,  which  could  not  pene- 
trate the  gentle  mask  of  Lucy's  manner.  Nugent 
the  husband  was  a  sleepy,  good-humoured  giant; 
Lord  Considine,  whose  beard  was  too  long,  and 
jacket-sleeves  much  too  short  —  as  were  his  trou- 
sers —  "  his  so-called  trousers,"  as  James  put  it  in 
his  scorn  —  talked  fiercely  about  birds'-nests  and 
engaged  Lucy  for  the  whole  afternoon.  This  was 
not  allowed  him  by  his  sister-in-law,  who  had  other 
more  sociable  plans,  but  the  good  man  had  his 
pleasure  of  a  docile  listener  after  tea,  took  her 
for  a  great  walk  in  the  woods,  and  exhibited 
nearly  all  his  treasures,  though,  as  he  said,  she 
should  have  been  there  six  weeks  earlier.  Alas, 


154  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

if  she  had  been,  she  would  have  had  a  more  open 
mind  to  give  to  the  birds  and  their  affairs. 

After  dinner,  when  they  were  on  the  terrace 
under  the  stars,  he  returned  to  his  subject.  There 
were  nightingales,  it  seemed.  What  did  Mrs. 
Macartney  say  to  that?  It  appeared  that  six 
miles  away  the  nightingale  was  an  unknown  fowl. 
Here,  of  course,  they  were  legionaries.  You 
might  hear  six  at  a  time :  two  triangles  of  them. 
Did  she  know  that  they  sang  in  triangles?  She 
did  not.  Very  well,  then:  what  did  she  say? 
What  about  shoes  —  a  cloak  —  a  shawl?  All 
these  things  could  be  brought.  Lucy  said  that  she 
would  fetch  them  for  herself,  and  went  upstairs  — 
shallow,  broad  stairs  of  black  oak,  very  much  ad- 
mired by  the  experts.  But  of  them  and  their  excel- 
lence she  had  no  thought.  She  did  not  care  to  let 
her  thoughts  up  to  the  surface  just  then.  Adven- 
ture beckoned  her. 

When  she  returned  Nugent  had  withdrawn  him- 
self to  the  smoking-room,  and  James  was  talking 
to  Vera  Nugent  about  people  one  knew.  Neither 
of  them  was  for  nightingales.  "  You  are  very 
foolhardy,"  James  said.  "  I  can't  help  you  with 
nightingales."  Lord  Considine,  in  a  black  Span- 
ish cloak,  with  the  staff  of  a  pilgrim  to  Compo- 


MARTLEY  THICKET   (i)          155 

Stella,  offered  his  arm.  "  We'll  go  first  to  the 
oak  Spinney,"  he  said.  "  It's  rather  spongy,  I'm 
afraid,  but  who  minds  a  little  cold  water  ?  "  Vera 
assured  him  that  she  did  for  one,  and  James 
added  that  he  was  rather  rheumatic.  "  Come 
along,  Mrs.  Macartney,"  said  the  lord.  "  These 
people  make  me  sorry  for  them."  So  they  went 
down  the  steps  and  dipped  into  the  velvet  night. 

It  was  barely  dark  skirting  the  lake.  You 
could  almost  see  the  rings  made  by  rising  trout, 
and  there  was  enough  of  you  visible  at  least  to 
send  the  waterfowl  scuttering  from  the  reeds. 
Beyond  that  again,  you  could  descry  the  pale  rib- 
bon of  the  footpath,  and  guess  at  the  exuberant 
masses  of  the  peony  bushes,  their  heavy  flowers, 
when  they  were  white,  still  smouldering  with  the 
last  of  the  sunset's  fire.  But  once  in  the  woods 
you  had  to  feel  your  way,  and  the  silence  of  it  all, 
like  the  darkness,  was  thick,  had  a  quality  which 
you  discovered  only  by  the  soft  close  touch  of  it 
upon  your  cheeks  and  eyes.  It  seemed  to  clog  the 
ears,  and  made  breathing  a  deeper  exercise.  The 
further  in  they  went  the  greater  the  guesswork  of 
the  going.  Lord  Considine  went  in  front,  to  keep 
the  branches  from  her  face. 

Upon  that  rich,  heavy  silence  the  first  birds' 


156  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

song  stole  like  a  sense  of  tears:  the  low,  tentative, 
pensive  note  which  seems  like  the  welling  of  a 
vein.  Lucy  stayed  and  breathlessly  listened. 
The  doubtfulness,  the  strain  of  longing  in  it 
chimed  with  her  own  mood,  which  was  one,  per- 
haps, of  passive  wonderment.  She  waited,  as  one 
who  is  to  receive;  she  was  not  committed,  but  she 
was  prepared:  everything  was  to  come.  The 
note  was  held,  it  waxed,  it  called,  and  then  broke, 
as  it  were,  into  a  fountain  of  crystal  melody. 
Thereafter  it  purred  of  peace,  it  floated  and 
stopped  short  as  if  content.  But  out  of  the  dark 
another  took  up  the  song,  and  further  off  another, 
provoking  our  first  musician  to  a  new  stave. 
Lucy,  with  parted  lips,  held  her  heart.  Love  was 
in  this  place,  overshadowing  her;  her  sightless 
eyes  were  wide,  waiting  upon  it;  and  it  came.  She 
heard  a  step  in  the  thicket;  she  stayed  without 
motion,  will  or  thought.  Expectant  expectavit. 
She  was  in  the  strange  arms,  and  the  strange  kisses 
were  on  her  parted  lips. 

She  knew  not,  nor  cared,  how  long  this  rapture 
held.  She  got,  and  she  gave.  James,  or 
another,  this  was  Eros  who  had  her  now.  She 
heard,  "  Oh,  Lucy,  oh,  my  love,  my  love,"  and 
she  thought  to  have  answered,  "  You  have  me  — 


MARTLEY  THICKET  (i)          157 

what  shall  I  do?  "  But  she  had  no  reply  to  her 
question,  and  seemed  to  have  no  desire  unsatis- 
fied. 

Lord  Considine's  voice  calling,  "  I  say,  shall  we 
go  on  —  or  do  you  think  you  had  better  go  in?  " 
sounded  a  very  homely  note.  Her  Eros  still  held 
her,  even  as  she  answered,  "  Perhaps  we  had  bet- 
ter turn  back  now.  I  could  stop  out  forever  on 
such  a  night.  It  has  been  more  beautiful  than  I 
can  say."  Approval  of  the  sentiment  expressed 
was  stamped  upon  her.  For  a  moment  of  wild 
surrender  she  clung  as  she  kissed;  then  she  was 
gently  relinquished,  and  the  lord  was  at  hand. 
"  There's  nothing  quite  like  it,  is  there?  "  he  said. 
"  I've  heard  astounding  orchestras  of  birds  in 
South  America ;  but  nothing  at  all  like  this  — 
which,  moreover,  seems  to  me  at  its  best  in  Eng- 
land. In  Granada,  up  there  in  the  Wellington 
elms,  they  absolutely; — mind,  mind,  here's  a 
briar-root  —  they  shout  at  you.  There's  a  bra- 
zen hardihood  about  them.  Jn  Athens,  too,  in 
the  King's  Garden,  it  is  a  kind  of  clamour  of  sound 
—  like  an  Arab  wedding.  No,  no,  I  say  that  we 
are  unrivalled  for  nightingales."  The  enthusias- 
tic man  galloped  on,  and  Lucy,  throbbing  in  the 
dark,  was  grateful  to  him. 


158  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

The  lights  of  the  house  recalled  her  to  the 
world.  Presently,  up  the  slope,  she  saw  Vera 
Nugent,  at  the  piano,  turning  to  say  something  to 
somebody.  It  was  James,  rather  bored  in  an 
arm-chair.  James  liked  neither  the  society  of 
women  nor  the  notes  of  a  piano.  But  he  liked 
still  less  for  such  things  to  be  known  of  him.  His 
own  social  standard  may  perhaps  be  put  thus:  he 
liked  to  appear  bored  without  boring  his  com- 
panions. On  the  whole  he  flattered  himself  that, 
high  as  it  was,  he  nearly  always  reached  it. 

"Where's  my  beautiful  young  brother?" 
said  Lord  Considine,  plunging  in  upon  them. 
"  Asleep,  I'll  take  my  oath.  My  dear  Vera,  you 
are  too  easy  with  him.  The  man  is  getting  moun- 
tainous. You  two  little  know  what  you've  missed 
—  hey,  Mrs.  Macartney?"  He  was  obviously 
overheated,  but  completely  at  ease  with  himself. 

"What  do  you  say  we  have  missed?"  Vera 
asked  of  James,  and  he  now,  on  his  feet,  said 
bravely,  "  For  myself,  a  nasty  chill."  A  chill  — 
out  there  1 

Lucy  was  asked,  Did  she  like  it  all,  and  boldly 
owned,  All.  "  The  dark  is  like  an  eiderdown  bed. 
Impossible  to  imagine  anything  softer."  She 


MARTLET  THICKET  (i)          159 

rubbed  her  eyes.  "  It  has  made  me  dreadfully 
sleepy,"  she  said.  "  I  think,  if  you  won't  be  hor- 
rified — "  Vera  said  that  she  should  go  up  with 
her.  James  stooped  to  her  cheek,  Lord  Considine 
bowed  over  her  hand. 

In  Lucy's  room  the  pair  had  a  long  talk,  all  of 
which  I  don't  pretend  to  report.  It  began  with, 
"  I'm  so  glad  that  you  take  to  poor  Considine. 
You  are  so  very  much  his  sort  of  woman.  He's 
a  dear,  simple  creature,  far  too  good  for  most  of 
us  —  and  a  Nugent  freak,  I  assure  you.  They've 
never  known  the  like  in  the  County  of  Cork.  .  .  . 
I  like  him  immensely,  but  of  course  he's  too  re- 
mote for  the  like  of  me.  No  small  talk,  you 
know,  and  I'm  aburst  with  it.  I  talk  while  I'm 
thinking,  and  he  when  he  has  thought.  You  un- 
derstand that  kind,  evidently.  I  suppose  your 
clever  husband  is  like  that.  Not  that  I  don't  get 
on  with  him.  We  did  excellently  —  I  think  he 
knew  everybody  that  I  could  think  of,  and  I  every- 
body he  chose  to  mention.  But  Jimmy  likes  Con- 
sidine, you  know.  ...  By  the  way,  it  was  very 
disgraceful  of  Jimmy,  but  not  so  disgraceful  as 
you  might  think.  In  its  way  it's  a  compliment. 
He  thinks  so  much  of  you  —  Oh,  I  may  as  well 
tell  you  the  shocking  truth.  He  ran  away.  What 


160  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

a  moth  in  the  drawing-room  ought  to  do,  but  never 
can,  Jimmy,  not  at  all  a  moth,  quite  suddenly  did. 
My  dear  Mrs.  Macartney,  Jimmy  ran  away  from 
you.  Flying!  I  doubt  it  profoundly.  Wres- 
tling, I  fancy,  fighting  beasts  at  Ephesus.  You 
have  doubtless  discovered  how  enthusiastic  Jimmy 
is.  Most  attractive,  no  doubt,  but  sometimes  em- 
barrassing. As  once,  when  we  were  in  Naples  — 
in  the  funicolare,  halfway  up  Vesuvius  —  Jimmy 
sees  a  party  at  the  other  end  of  the  carriage: 
mother,  daughter,  two  pig-tailed  children,  and  a 
governess  —  quite  a  pretty  gel.  Jimmy  was  enor- 
mously struck  with  this  governess.  He  could  see 
nothing  else,  and  nobody  else  either,  least  of  all 
me,  of  course.  He  muttered  and  rolled  his  eyes 
about? — his  chin  jutted  like  the  bow  of  a  de- 
stroyer. Presently  he  couldn't  stand  it.  He 
marched  across  the  carriage  and  took  off  his  hat 
with  a  bow  —  my  dear,  to  the  governess,  poor 
gel  I  *  I  beg  your  pardon,1  says  he,  *  but  I  have 
to  tell  you  something.  I  think  you  are  the  most 
beautiful  person  I  ever  saw  in  my  life,  and  take 
pride  in  saying  so.'  Wasn't  it  awful?  I  didn't 
dare  look  at  them- — but  it  seemed  all  right  after- 
wards. I  suppose  she  told  her  people  that  of 
course  he  was  mad.  So  he  is,  in  a  way;  but  it's 


MARTLEY  THICKET  (i)          161 

quite  nice  madness.  I  won't  say  that  Jimmy  never 
goes  too  far  —  but  nobody  could  be  nicer  about 
it  afterwards  than  Jimmy  —  no  one.  He's  aw- 
fully sorry,  and  contrite,  and  all  that.  Most  peo- 
ple like  him  amazingly.  I  suppose  he's  told  you 
about  our  father  ?  He  loves  all  the  stories  there 
are  about  him  .  .  ."  and  so  on.  Yera  Nugent 
was  a  great  talker. 

Lucy  at  her  prayers,  Lucy  in  her  bed,  had  large 
gaps  in  the  sequence  of  her  thoughts.  Safety  lay 
only  with  Lancelot.  She  could  centre  herself  in 
him.  Lancelot  it  was  who  with  forceful  small 
fingers,  and  half-shy,  half-sly  eyes,  finally  closed 
down  hers,  with  a  "  Go  to  sleep,  you  tired 


mamma." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

MARTLEY  THICKET    (2) 

THE  day  that  succeeded  was  prelude  to  the 
night,  sufficient  to  show  Lucy  her  way 
into  that  spacious  unknown.     By  her  own 
desire  she  passed  it  quietly,  and  had  leisure  to  re- 
view and  to  forecast. 

She  put  it  to  herself,  roughly,  thus.  I  may 
guess,  but  I  don't  know,  who  loves  me  so.  It 
cannot  continue  —  it  shall  stop  this  very  night. 
But  this  one  night  I  must  go  to  him,  if  only  to  say 
that  it  can  never  be  again.  And  it  won't  be  again ; 
I  am  sure  of  that.  However  he  may  take  it, 
whatever  he  may  be  driven  to,  he  will  do  what  I 
say  must  be.  As  for  me,  I  don't  think  women 
can  ever  be  very  happy.  I  expect  I  shall  get  used 
to  it  —  one  does,  to  almost  anything,  except  tooth- 
ache. And  I  have  Lancelot.  She  put  all  this 
quite  frankly  to  herself,  not  shirking  the  drab  out- 
look or  the  anguish  of  doing  a  thing  for  the  last 
time  —  always  a  piercing  ordeal  for  her.  As  for 
James,  if  she  thought  of  him  at  all,  it  was  with 
pity.  Poor  dear,  he  really  was  rather  dry  1 

162 


MARTLEY  THICKET   (2)          163 

She  ought  to  have  been  very  angry  with  Urqu- 
hart,  but  she  was  not.  "  The  first  time  he  did  it, 
I  understand.  I  am  sure  he  had  a  sudden 
thought,  and  couldn't  resist  it.  It  must  have  been 
more  than  half  fun,  and  the  rest  because  it  was 
so  romantic.  The  other  times  were  much  more 
wrong.  But  I'm  not  angry  with  him.  I  ought  to 
be  —  but  I'm  not  —  not  at  all.  I  suppose  that  is 
because  I  couldn't  be  angry  with  him  if  I  tried  .  .  . 
not  if  he  did  much  more.  .  .  .  No,  I  am  sure  he 
doesn't  hold  me  cheap.  He's  not  at  all  like  that. 
James  might  —  only  James  holds  all  women 
cheap.  But  He  doesn't.  I  never  felt  at  all  like 
this  about  a  man  before.  Only  —  it  must  stop, 
after  this  once.  .  .  ." 

You  see,  he  had  not  kindled  passion  in  her,  even 
if  there  were  any  to  be  kindled.  Lucy,  with  a 
vehement  imagination,  lacked  initiative.  You 
could  touch  her  in  a  moment,  if  you  knew  how,  or 
if  you  were  the  right  person.  Now  Urquhart  had 
never  touched,  though  he  had  excited,  her.  To 
be  touched  you  must  respond  to  a  need  of  hers  — 
much  more  that  than  have  a  need  of  your  own. 
And  to  be  the  right  person  you  must  be  empow- 
ered, according  to  Lucy.  Urquhart  was  not 
really  empowered,  but  an  usurper.  Of  course  he 


1 64  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

didn't  know  that.  He  reasoned  hastily,  and 
superficially.  He  thought  her  to  be  like  most 
women,  struck  by  audacity.  What  really  struck 
her  about  him  were  his  timeliness  —  he  had  re- 
sponded to  a  need  of  hers  when  he  had  first  kissed 
her  —  and  his  rare  moments  of  tenderness. 
"  You  darling!  "  Oh,  if  James  could  only  have 
said  that  instead  of  "My  darling  1"  Poor 
James,  what  a  goose  he  was. 

It  was  a  very  peaceful  day.  James  and  Nugent 
had  driven  out  to  play  golf  on  some  first-class 
course  or  other  by  the  sea.  Lord  Considine  was 
busy  with  his  secretary  over  a  paper  for  the  Brit- 
ish Association.  In  the  afternoon  he  promised 
Lucy  sight  of  two  golden  orioles,  and  kept  his 
promise.  She  had  leisure  to  look  about  her  and 
find  traces  of  Urquhart  in  much  that  was  original, 
and  more  that  was  comfortable  and  intimate,  in 
Martley  Thicket.  It  was  a  long  two-storeyed 
house  of  whitewashed  brick,  with  a  green  slate 
roof,  intermixed  with  reed-thatch,  deep-eaved  and 
verandahed  along  the  whole  south  front.  The 
upper  windows  had  green  persanes.  The  house 
stood  on  the  side  of  a  hill,  was  terraced,  and 
looked  over  a  concave  of  fine  turf  into  a  valley, 
down  whose  centre  ran  the  lake,  at  whose  bottom 


MARTLEY  THICKET  (2)          165 

was  the  wood;  and  beyond  that  the  moors  and 
beech-masses  of  the  forest.  Beside  the  house,  and 
behind  it,  was  a  walled  kitchen  garden,  white- 
walled,  with  a  thatch  atop.  On  the  other  side 
were  stables,  kennels  and  such-like.  Everything 
was  grown  to  the  top  of  its  bent;  but  there  was 
nothing  very  rare.  "  No  frills,"  said  Lord  Con- 
sidine,  and  approved  of  it  all.  "  I  dare  say  a 
woman  would  beautify  it,  but  it  would  cease  to  be 
Jimmy's  and  would  cease  to  be  interesting  too. 
She  would  have  more  flowers  and  fewer  shrubs. 
Now  Jimmy  knows  enough  about  it  to  understand 
that  shrubs  and  trees  are  the  real  test  of  garden- 
ing. Anybody  can  grow  flowers ;  but  shrubs  want 
science."  Lucy  felt  rebuked.  She  had  desider- 
ated more  flowers.  James,  who  knew  nothing 
and  cared  little  about  gardens,  passed  approval  of 
the  house  and  offices.  "  It  doesn't  smell  of 
money,"  he  said,  "  and  yet  you  see  what  a  lot  it 
means  when  you  look  into  it."  Success,  in  fact, 
without  visible  effort:  one  of  James's  high  stand- 
ards. He  didn't  know  how  Jimmy  got  his  money, 
but  had  no  doubts  at  all  of  its  being  there.  A 
man  who  could  lend  Francis  Lingen  £10,000  with- 
out a  thought  must  be  richissime.  Yet  Jimmy  had 
no  men-servants  in  the  house,  and  James  glared 


1 66  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

about  him  for  the  reason.  Lucy  had  a  reason. 
"  I  suppose,  you  know,  he  wants  to  be  really  com- 
fortable," she  proposed,  and  James  transferred 
his  mild  abhorrence  to  her.  "  Comfortable,  with- 
out a  fellow  to  put  out  his  things !  "  He  scoffed 
at  her.  But  she  was  rather  short  with  him,  even 
testy.  "  My  dear  James,  Mr.  Urquhart's  things 
are  things  to  be  put  on  or  taken  off  —  like  Lord 
Considine's  '  so-called  clothes.'  To  you  they 
seem  to  be  robes  of  ceremony,  or  sacrificial  vest- 
ments." James  stared  rather  through  than  at 
her,  as  if  some  enemy  lurked  behind  her.  "  My 
clothes  seem  to  annoy  you.  May  I  suggest  that 
somebody  must  get  the  mud  off  them,  and  that  I 
had  rather  it  wasn't  me?  As  for  ceremony — " 
But  she  had  gone.  James  shrugged  her  out  of 
mind,  and  wondered  vaguely  if  she  was  rather  at- 
tracted by  Jimmy  Urquhart.  It  was  bound  to 
be  somebody  —  at  her  age.  Thirty-two  she  must 
be,  when  they  begin  to  like  a  fling.  Well,  there 
was  nothing  in  it.  Later  on  it  occurred  to  him 
that  she  was  looking  uncommonly  well  just  now. 
He  saw  her,  in  white,  cross  the  lawn:  a  springy 
motion,  a  quick  lift,  turn  of  the  head.  She  looked 
a  girl,  and  a  pretty  one  at  that.  His  heart 
warmed  to  her.  How  could  a  man  have  a  better 


MARTLEY  THICKET  (2)          167 

wife  than  that?  Success  without  effort  again! 
There  it  was. 

The  evening  came,  the  close  of  a  hot  and  airless 
day.  The  sun  set  heavy  and  red.  A  bluish  mist 
seemed  to  steal  out  of  the  forest  and  shroud  the 
house.  The  terrace  was  not  used  after  dinner, 
and  when  the  men  joined  Vera  and  her  in  the 
drawing-room  Lord  Considine,  who  had  proposed 
a  game  of  chess  to  James  at  the  table,  now  came 
forward  with  board  and  box  of  men.  Nugent,  as 
usual,  had  disappeared.  "  He's  dormant  when 
there's  no  hunting,"  his  wife  explained.  "  He  has 
nothing  to  kill  and  hates  his  fellow-creatures." 
"  Then,"  said  James,  "  he  might  kill  some  of 
them.  I  could  furnish  him  with  a  rough  list." 
Lucy  felt  restless  and  strayed  about  the  room, 
looking  at  things  here  and  there  without  seeing 
them.  Vera  watched  her,  saw  her  wander  to  the 
open  window  and  stand  there  looking  gravely  into 
the  dark.  She  said  nothing,  and  presently  Lucy 
stepped  out  and  disappeared.  Vera,  with  raised 
eyebrows  and  a  half  smile,  resumed  her  book. 

Lucy  was  now  high-hearted  on  her  quest  — 
her  quest  and  mission.  It  was  to  be  this  once, 
and  for  the  last  time.  She  followed  the  peony 
path  from  the  lake  to  the  thicket,  entered  among 


1 68  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

the  trees  and  pushed  her  way  forward.  Long 
before  she  reached  the  scene  of  last  night's  wonder 
she  was  a  prisoner,  her  lips  a  prize.  There  was 
very  little  disguise  left  now.  For  a  full  time  they 
clung  together  and  loved  without  words ;  but  then 
he  spoke.  "  So  you  came !  I  hoped,  I  waited,  I 
thought  that  you  might.  Oh,  my  Lucy,  what  a 
fact  for  me !  " 

She  answered  simply  and  gently,  "  I  came  — 
I  had  to  come  —  but  — " 

"Well,  my  love?" 

"  Ah,"  she  said,  "  but  this  must  be  for  the  last 
time."  This  was  not  taken  as  she  had  meant  it 
to  be.  Love  began  again.  Then  he  said, 
"  That's  absurd." 

"  No,  no,"  she  protested,  "  it's  right.  It  must 
be  so.  You  would  not  have  me  do  anything  else." 

"And  I  must  go?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  you  must  go  now." 

"  Not  yet,  Lucy.     Soon." 

"  No,  at  once,"  she  told  him.  "  The  last  time 
is  come,  and  gone.  You  must  not  keep  me." 

"  Let  me  talk  to  you,  so,  for  a  few  minutes. 
There's  everything  to  say." 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  tell  me  nothing.  I  dare  not 
know  it.  Please  let  me  go  now." 


MARTLEY  THICKET  (2)          169 

"  A  last  time,  then,  Lucy."  She  yielded  her 
lips,  but  unwillingly;  for  now  her  mind  was  made 
up.  The  thing  had  to  be  done,  and  the  sooner  the 
better. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  "  how  can  I  let  you  go?  " 

"Easily,"  she  answered,  "when  I  ask  you"; 
and  was  unanswerable.  She  forced  herself  free, 
and  stood  undecided. 

u  You  needn't  go  back  yet,"  he  said,  but  she 
thought  she  must. 

"  I  came  out  alone,"  she  told  him,  "  but  Vera 
was  in  the  room.  So  were  the  others.  I  don't 
know  what  they  will  think." 

"Nothing  at  all,"  he  said.  "Well,  every- 
thing shall  be  as  you  wish.  You  see  that  you  have 
only  to  name  your  wish." 

"  I  have  one  thing  to  ask  you  —  I  dare  not  ask 
any  more,"  she  said.  Her  voice  had  a  wavering 
sound. 

"  Ask,"  he  said,  "  and  I'll  tell  you  the  truth." 
'You  don't  think  it  wicked  of  me,  to  have 
come?  Because  I  did  come.  I  thought  that  I 
must,  because  —  because  I  could  never  explain  at 
any  other  time,  in  any  other  way.  You  don't 
think  —  lightly  of  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,"  he  said  —  and  she 


170  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

felt  him  tremble,  though  he  did  not  touch  her. 
"  I  think  more  dearly  of  you  than  of  anything  in 
heaven.  The  world  holds  no  other  woman  for 
me.  So  it  will  always  be." 

She  said  quietly,  "  It's  very  wonderful.  I  don't 
understand  it  at  all.  I  thought  perhaps  —  I  won- 
dered—  if  I  had  been  angry — " 

"  I  deserve  that,  and  more." 

"  I  know  I  ought  to  be  angry.  So  I  should  be 
if—" 

"Well,  my  love,  well?" 

But  she  couldn't  tell  him,  and  asked  him  to  let 
her  go.  They  parted  at  the  entry  of  the  wood 
with  Good  night,  and  Lucy  flitted  back  with  a 
pain  in  her  heart  like  the  sound  of  wailing.  But 
women  can  wail  at  heart  and  show  a  fair  face  to 
the  world.  Her  stretched  smile  had  lost  none  of 
its  sweetness,  her  eyes  none  of  their  brightness. 
Vera  Nugent  watched  her  narrowly,  and  led  the 
conversation  upstairs.  She  thought  that  she  de- 
tected a  pensive  note,  but  assured  herself  that  all 
was  pretty  well.  "  That's  a  remarkable  woman," 
she  said  to  herself,  "  who  would  rather  have  a 
heartache  now  than  grin  with  misery  next  week. 
After  this  I'd  trust  her  anywhere." 


On  Sunday  morning  Urquhart  made  an  explicit 


MARTLEY  THICKET  (2)         171 

return  to  Martley,  arriving  at  the  hour  of  eleven 
in  his  motor  of  battleship  grey  colour  and  for- 
midable fore-extension.  Behind  it  looked  rather 
like  a  toy.  Lucy  had  gone  to  church  alone,  for 
James  never  went,  and  Vera  Nugent  simply 
looked  appealing  and  then  laughed  when  she 
was  invited.  That  was  her  way  of  announc- 
ing her  religion,  and  a  pleasant  one.  Lord 
Considine  was  out  for  the  day,  with  sandwiches 
bulging  his  pockets.  Nugent  had  been  invisible 
since  overnight.  He  was  slugging,  said  his 
wife. 

Returning  staidly  through  the  wood,  she  saw 
Urquhart  waiting  for  her  at  the  wicket,  and  saw 
him,  be  it  owned,  through  a  veil  of  mist.  But  it 
was  soon  evident,  from  his  address,  that  the  con- 
vention set  up  was  to  be  maintained.  The  night 
was  to  take  care  of  itself;  the  day  was  to  know 
nothing  of  it,  officially.  His  address  was  easy 
and  light-hearted.  "  Am  I  to  be  forgiven?  Can 
I  expect  it?  Let  me  tell  you  that  I  do  expect  it. 
You  know  me  better  than  to  suppose  that  I  didn't 
want  to  be  here  on  your  first  visit." 

She  answered  him  with  the  same  spirit.  "  I 
think  you  might  have  been,  I  must  say." 

"  No,  I  couldn't.  There  was  no  doubt  about  it. 
I  simply  had  to  go." 


172  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

"  So  Vera  told  me."  Then  she  dared.  "  May 
I  ask  if  you  went  far?  " 

He  tipped  his  head  sideways.  "  Too  far  for 
my  peace  of  mind,  anyhow." 

"  That  tells  me  nothing.  I  am  not  to  know  any 
more?  " 

'  You  are  to  know  what  you  please." 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  I  please  to  forget  it.  Now 
I  had  better  tell  you  how  much  I  love  Martley. 
James  says  that  the  house  is  perfect  in  its  way; 
but  I  say  that  you  have  done  justice  to  the  site,  and 
think  it  higher  praise." 

"  It  is.  I'm  much  obliged  to  you.  The  prob- 
lem was  —  not  to  enhance  the  site,  for  that  was 
out  of  the  question;  rather  to  justify  the  imperti- 
nence of  choosing  to  put  any  building  there.  Be- 
cause of  course  you  see  that  any  house  is  an  im- 
pertinence in  a  forest." 

"  Yes,  of  course  —  but  not  yours." 

Urquhart  shrugged.  "  I'm  not  afraid  of  your 
flatteries,  because  I  know,"  he  said.  "  The  most 
that  can  be  said  for  me  is  that  I  haven't  choked  it 
up  with  scarlet  and  orange  flowers.  There's  not 
a  geranium  in  the  place,  and  I  haven't  even  a 
pomegranate  in  a  tub,  though  I  might." 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said  warmly,  "  there's  nothing 


MARTLEY  THICKET  (2)          173 

finicky  about  your  garden  —  any  more  than  there 
is  about  you.  There  was  never  such  a  man  of 
direction  —  at  least  I  never  met  one."  The 
moment  she  had  said  it  she  became  embarrassed; 
but  he  took  no  notice.  His  manner  was  perfect. 
They  returned  by  the  lake,  and  stayed  there  a 
while  to  watch  Nugent  trying  to  catch  trout.  The 
rest  of  the  day  she  spent  in  Urquhart's  company, 
who  contrived  with  a  good  deal  of  ingenuity  to 
have  her  to  himself  while  appearing  to  be  gener- 
ally available.  After  dinner,  feeling  sure  of  him, 
she  braved  the  tale-bearing  woods  and  nightin- 
gales vocal  of  her  sweet  unease.  There  was  com- 
pany on  this  occasion,  but  she  felt  certain  it  would 
not  have  been  otherwise  had  they  been  retired 
with  the  night.  She  was  thoughtful  and  quiet, 
and  really  her  heart  was  full  of  complaining.  He 
was  steadily  cheerful,  and  affected  a  blunt  view  of 
life  at  large. 

She  did  not  look  forward  to  leaving  him  on  the 
morrow,  and  as  good  as  said  so.  "  I  have  been 
enchanted  here,"  she  said,  "  and  hate  the  thought 
of  London.  But  James  won't  hear  of  Wycross 
in  June.  He  loves  the  world." 

Urquhart  said,  "  What  are  you  going  to  do  in 
August?  Wycross?" 

"  No,  we  never  go  there  in  August.     It's  too 


174  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

hot  —  And  there's  Lancelot.  A  boy  must  have 
excitement.  I  expect  it  will  come  to  my  taking 
him  to  the  sea,  unless  James  consents  to  Scotland. 
We  used  to  do  that,  but  now  —  well,  he's  bored 
there." 

He  was  looking  at  her,  she  felt,  though  she 
couldn't  see  him.  "  Did  you  ever  go  to  Nor- 
way? "  She  shook  her  head.  He  said  no  more 
on  that  head  just  then. 

"  I  shall  see  you  in  London,"  he  told  her.  "  I 
am  going  to  take  my  Certificate  at  Brooklands. 
Next  week  I  hope.  You  might  come  and  ap- 
plaud." 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  she.  "  I  couldn't  bear  to 
see  you  in  those  conditions.  I  have  nerves,  if 
you  have  none." 

"  I  have  plenty,"  he  said,  "  but  you  ought  to  do 
it.  Some  day  you  will  have  to  face  it." 

"  Why  shall  I  ?  "     He  wouldn't  tell  her. 

That  made  her  daring.     "  Why  shall  I?  " 

His  first  answer  was  a  steady  look;  his  second, 
"  Nothing  stops,  you  know.  Things  all  swim  to 
a  point.  Ebb  and  flow.  They  don't  go  back 
until  they  reach  it." 

"And  then?" 

"  And  then  they  may  —  or  they  may  not  blot  it 
out  and  swim  on." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE   GREAT   SCHEME 

THE  height  of  her  esteem  for  Urquhart 
was  the  measure  of  her  growing  disrelish 
for  James.  It  was  hard  to  visit  upon  a 
man  the  sense  that  he  was  not  what  he  had  never 
dreamed  of  being;  but  that  is  what  happened  to 
him.  By  how  much  he  had  risen  in  her  eyes  when 
she  made  an  Eros  of  him,  by  so  much  did  he  fall 
when  she  found  out  her  mistake.  Because  he  was 
obviously  no  Eros,  was  he  so  obviously  but  part 
of  a  man?  It  seemed  so  indeed.  If  he  discerned 
it  there's  no  wonder.  He  irritated  her;  she  found 
herself  instinctively  combating  his  little  prepara- 
tions for  completeness  of  effect  —  she  was  herself 
all  for  simplicity  in  these  days.  She  could  not 
conceal  her  scorn,  for  instance,  when  he  refused 
to  go  with  her  to  dine  in  a  distant  suburb  because 
he  would  not  have  time  to  dress.  "  As  if,"  she 
said,  "you  eat  your  shirt-front!"  Trenchancy 
from  James  produced  a  silent  disapproval.  As 
he  said,  if  she  didn't  sniff,  she  looked  as  if  she  felt 

175 


176  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

a  cold  coming  on.  She  knew  it  herself  and  took 
great  pains;  but  it  coloured  her  tone,  if  not  her 
words.  Too  often  she  was  merely  silent  when  he 
was  very  much  himself.  Silence  is  contagious: 
they  passed  a  whole  dinner  through  without  a 
word,  sometimes. 

Now  James  had  his  feelings,  and  was  rather  un- 
happy over  what  he  called  her  moods.  He 
thought  she  did  not  go  out  enough.  She  ought 
to  see  more  people :  a  woman  liked  to  be  admired. 
It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  she  might  have  been 
very  glad  of  it  from  him ;  but  then  he  didn't  know 
how  highly  she  had  been  elated  with  what  she 
called,  thinking  it  really  so,  his  love-in-the-dark- 
ness.  No,  Macartney,  if  ever  he  looked  into  him- 
self, found  nothing  wrong  there.  He  kept  a  wary 
eye  through  his  masking-glass  upon  Urquhart's 
comings  and  goings.  As  far  as  he  could  ascertain 
he  was  rarely  in  London  during  June  and  early 
July.  No  doubt  he  wrote  to  Lucy;  James  was 
pretty  sure  of  it;  yet  he  could  not  stoop  to  examin- 
ing envelopes,  and  had  to  leave  that  to  Providence 
and  herself.  He  mingled  with  his  uneasiness  a 
high  sense  of  her  integrity,  which  he  could  not 
imagine  ever  losing.  It  was,  or  might  have  been, 
curious  to  observe  the  difference  he  made  between 


THE  GREAT  SCHEME  177, 

his  two  jealousies.  He  had  been  insolent  to 
Francis  Lingen,  with  his  "  Ha,  Lingen,  you 
here?"  He  was  markedly  polite  to  Jimmy  Ur- 
quhart,  much  more  so  than  his  habit  was.  He 
used  to  accompany  him  to  the  door  when  he  left, 
an  unheard-of  attention.  But  that  may  have  been 
because  Lucy  went  thither  also. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  Urquhart  saw  very  little  of 
her.  He  was  very  much  away,  on  his  aerial  and 
other  affairs,  and  did  not  care  to  come  to  the  house 
unless  James  was  there,  nor,  naturally,  very  much 
when  he  was.  They  mostly  met  in  the  Park,  rarely 
at  other  people's  houses.  Once  she  lunched 
at  the  Nugents'  and  had  the  afternoon  alone 
with  him;  twice  he  drove  her  to  Kew  Gardens; 
once  she  asked  him  for  a  week-end  to  Wycross, 
and  they  had  some  talks  and  a  walk.  He  wrote 
perhaps  once  a  week,  and  she  answered  him  per- 
haps once  a  fortnight.  Not  more.  She  had  to 
put  the  screw  on  herself  to  outdo  him  in  frugality. 
She  respected  him  enormously  for  his  mastery  of 
himself,  and  could  not  have  told  how  much  it  en- 
hanced her  love.  It  was  really  comical  that  pre- 
cisely what  she  had  condemned  James  for  she 
found  admirable  in  Jimmy.  James  had  neglected 
her  for  his  occupations,  and  Jimmy  was  much 


178  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

away  about  his.  In  the  first  case  she  resented,  in 
the  second  she  was  not  far  from  adoration  of  such 
a  sign  of  serious  strength. 

They  never  alluded  directly  to  what  had  hap- 
pened, but  sometimes  hinted  at  it.  These  hints 
were  always  hers,  for  Urquhart  was  a  random 
talker,  said  what  came  into  his  head  and  had  no 
eye  for  implications.  He  made  one  odd  remark, 
and  made  it  abruptly,  as  if  it  did  not  affect  any- 
body present.  "  It's  a  very  funny  thing,"  he  said, 
"  that  last  year  I  didn't  know  Macartney  had  a 
wife,  and  now,  six  months  later,  I  don't  realise 
that  you  have  got  a  husband."  It  made  her  laugh 
inwardly,  but  she  said  gently,  "  Try  to  realise  it. 
It's  true." 

"  You  wish  me  to  make  a  point  of  it?  "  he  asked 
her  that  with  a  shrewd  look. 

"  I  wish  you,  naturally,  to  realise  me  as  I  am." 

"  There  doesn't  seem  much  of  you  involved  in 
it,"  he  said;  but  she  raised  her  eyebrows  patiently. 

"  It  is  a  fact,  and  the  fact  is  a  part  of  me.  Be- 
sides, there's  Lancelot." 

11  Oh,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  forget  him.  You 
needn't  think  it.  He  is  a  symbol  of  you  —  and 
almost  an  emanation.  Put  it  like  this,  that  what 
you  might  have  been,  he  is." 


THE  GREAT  SCHEME  179 

"  Oh,"  said  she,  "  do  you  want  me  to  be  dif- 
ferent?" 

He  laughed.  "  Bless  you,  no.  But  I  like  to 
see  what  you  gave  up  to  be  made  woman.  And  I 
see  it  in  your  boy." 

She  was  impelled  to  say  what  she  said  next  by 
his  words,  which  excited  her.  "  I  can't  tell  you  — 
and  perhaps  I  ought  not  —  how  happy  you  make 
me  by  loving  Lancelot.  I  love  him  so  very  much 
—  and  James  never  has.  I  can't  make  out  why; 
but  it  was  so  from  the  beginning.  That  was  the 
first  thing  which  made  me  unhappy  in  my  life  at 
home.  It  was  the  beginning  of  everything.  He 
seemed  to  lose  interest  in  me  when  he  found  me 
so  devoted." 

Urquhart  said  nothing  immediately.  Then  he 
spoke  slowly.  "  Macartney  is  uneasy  with  boys 
because  he's  uneasy  with  himself.  He  is  only 
really  interested  in  one  thing,  and  he  can  see  that 
they  are  obviously  uninterested  in  it." 

"  You  mean  —  ?  "  she  began,  and  did  not  finish. 

"  I  do,"  said  Urquhart.  "  Most  men  are  like 
that  at  bottom  —  only  some  of  us  can  impose  our- 
selves upon  our  neighbours  more  easily  than  he 
can.  Half  the  marriages  of  the  world  break  on 
that  rock,  and  the  other  half  on  idleness." 


i8o  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

She  then  confessed.  "  Do  you  know  what  I 
believe  in  my  heart?  I  believe  that  James's  eye- 
glass stands  in  his  way  with  Lancelot  —  as  it  cer- 
tainly did  with  me." 

"  I  think  you  are  right  there,"  he  agreed. 
"  But  you  must  allow  for  it.  He's  very  uncer- 
tain of  his  foothold,  and  that's  his  war  armour." 

She  was  more  tolerant  of  James  after  that  con- 
versation, and  less  mutinous  against  her  lot. 
She  wondered,  of  course,  what  was  to  become  of 
them,  how  long  she  could  hold  him  at  arms'  length, 
how  she  could  bring  herself  to  unsay  what  had 
been  said  in  the  dark  of  Martley  Thicket.  But 
she  had  boundless  faith  in  Urquhart,  and  knew, 
among  other  things,  that  any  request  she  made 
him  would  be  made  easy  for  her. 

But  when,  at  the  end  of  June,  he  broached  to 
her  his  great  scheme,  she  was  brought  face  to 
face  with  the  situation,  and  had  to  ask  herself, 
could  she  be  trusted?  That  he  could  she  knew 
very  well. 

He  had  a  project  for  a  month  or  six  weeks  in 
Norway.  He  had  hinted  at  it  when  she  was  at 
Martley,  but  now  it  was  broached.  He  didn't 
disguise  it  that  his  interest  lay  wholly  in  her  com- 
ing. He  laid  it  before  her:  she,  Lancelot  and 


THE  GREAT  SCHEME  181 

James  were  to  be  the  nucleus.  He  should  ask 
the  Corbets  and  their  boys,  Vera  and  hers. 
Nugent  would  refuse,  he  knew.  Meantime,  what 
did  she  say?  He  watched  her  shining  eyes  per- 
pending, saw  the  gleam  of  anticipated  delight. 
What  a  plan!  But  then  she  looked  down,  hesi- 
tating. Something  must  now  be  said. 

"  Oh,  of  course  Lancelot  would  go  mad  with 
joy,  and  I  dare  say  I  could  persuade  James  — " 

"Well?     But  you?" 

"  I  should  live  every  moment  of  the  time,  but 
—  sometimes  life  seems  to  cost  too  much." 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  her,  and  she  took  it 
very  simply.  "  Promise  to  come,  and  you  shan't 
repent  it.  Mind,  you  have  my  word  on  that." 
Then  he  let  her  go,  and  they  discussed  ways  and 
means.  She  would  speak  to  James;  then  he 
should  come  and  dine,  and  talk  it  out.  Mean- 
time, let  him  make  sure  of  Vera,  and  do  his  best 
with  the  Corbets.  If  they  were  fixed  up,  as  she 
thought  probable,  he  might  get  some  other  people. 
Considine  might  like  it.  "  He's  very  much  at 
your  disposal,  let  me  tell  you.  You  have  him  at 
your  feet." 

So  it  was  settled,  and  James  was  attacked  in 
front.  She  told  him  as  they  were  driving  out  to 


1 82  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

dinner  that  she  had  met  Mr.  Urquhart  that  after- 
noon. "  I  dare  say  you  might,"  said  James.  But 
he  had  stiffened  to  attention. 

"  He  blazed  upon  me  a  plan  for  August.  I 
said  I  would  ask  you  about  it." 

James  said,  "  H'm.     Does  it  rest  with  me?" 

"  Naturally  it  does.  I  should  not  think  of  any 
plans  without  talking  to  you." 

"  No,  I  suppose  you  wouldn't,"  said  he.  Then 
he  asked,  "  And  what  does  Urquhart  want  you  to 
do?" 

"  He  doesn't  want  me,  particularly.  He  wants 
all  three  of  us." 

"I  think,"  said  James,  "you'll  find  that  he 
wants  you  most." 

She  felt  that  this  must  be  fathomed.  "  And  if 
he  did,"  she  said,  "  should  you  object  to  that?  " 
He  kept  very  dry. 

"  It  isn't  a  case  of  objecting  to  that,  or  this. 
The  question  before  me  at  present  is  whether  I 
want  to  form  one  of  a  party  which  doesn't  want 
me,  and  where  I  might  be  in  the  way." 

"  From  what  I  know  of  Mr.  Urquhart,"  she 
answered,  "  I  don't  think  he  would  ever  ask  a 
person  he  didn't  want." 

"  He  might,  if  he  couldn't  get  the  person  he  did 


THE  GREAT  SCHEME  183 

want  in  any  other  way,"  said  James.  '  Who  else 
is  to  come  ?  " 

"  Vera  Nugent  and  her  boy,  and  perhaps  Lord 
Considine.  He  is  going  to  ask  Laurence  and 
Mabel  and  all  the  boys  too." 

"  It  will  be  a  kind  of  school-treat,"  said  James. 
"  I  own  it  doesn't  sound  very  exciting.  Where 
are  we  to  go  to? " 

"  To  Norway.  He  knows  of  a  house  on  the 
Hardanger  Fiord,  a  house  in  a  wood.  He  wants 
to  hire  a  steamer  to  take  us  up  from  Bergen,  and 
means  to  bring  a  motor-boat  with  him.  There 
will  be  fishing  of  sorts  if  you  want  it." 

"I  don't,"  said  James;  then  held  up  his  chin. 
"Is  my  tie  straight?" 

She  looked.  "  Perfectly.  What  am  I  to  say 
to  Mr.  Urquhart?" 

He  said,  "  I'll  talk  about  it;  we'll  discuss  it  in 
all  its  bearings.  I  don't  think  I'm  so  attracted 
as  you  are,  but  then  • — " 

"  It's  very  evident  you  aren't,"  Lucy  said,  and 
no  more.  She  felt  in  a  prickly  heat,  and  thought 
that  she  had  never  wanted  anything  so  much  in  her 
life  as  this  which  was  about  to  be  denied  her.  She 
dared  not  write  to  Lancelot  about  it;  but  to  Urqu- 
hart she  confessed  her  despair  and  hinted  at  her 


1 84  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

longing.  He  replied  at  once,  "  Ask  me  to  dinner. 
I'll  tackle  him.  Vera  and  child  will  come;  not 
Considine.  The  Corbets  can't  —  going  to  Scot- 
land, yachting.  We  needn't  have  another  woman, 
but  Vera  will  be  cross  if  there  is  no  other  man. 
Up  to  you  to  find  one." 

This  again  she  carried  to  James,  who  said, 
"  Let  him  come  —  any  free  night.  Tell  me  which 
you  settle,  will  you?  " 

James  had  been  thinking  it  out.  He  knew  he 
would  have  to  go,  and  was  prepared  with  what 
he  called  a  spoke  for  Jimmy's  wheel.  Inciden- 
tally it  would  be  a  nasty  one  for  Lucy,  and  none 
the  worse  for  that.  He  considered  that  she  was 
getting  out  of  hand,  and  that  Urquhart  might  be 
a  nuisance  because  such  a  spiny  customer  to  tackle. 
But  he  had  a  little  plan,  and  chuckled  over  it  a 
good  deal  when  he  was  by  himself. 

He  was,  as  usual,  excessively  urbane  to  Urqu- 
hart when  they  met,  and  himself  opened  the  topic 
of  the  Norwegian  jaunt.  Urquhart  took  up  the 
ball.  "  I  think  you  might  come.  Your  wife  and 
boy  will  love  it,  and  you'll  kindle  at  their  joy. 
*  They  for  life  only,  you  for  life  in  them,'  to  flout 
the  bard.  Besides,  you  are  not  a  fogey,  if  I'm 
not.  I  believe  our  age§  tally,  You  shall  climb 


THE  GREAT  SCHEME  185 

mountains  with  me,  Macartney,  and  improve  the 
muscles  of  your  calves.  You  don't  fish,  I  think. 
Nor  do  I.  I  thought  I  should  catch  your  brother- 
in-law  with  that  bait  —  but  no.  As  for  mine, 
he'll  spend  the  month  in  bed  somewhere." 

"  Is  your  sister  coming?  "  James  asked. 

Urquhart  nodded.  "  And  her  youngster.  Os- 
borne  boy,  and  a  good  sort.  Lancelot  and  he 
have  met." 

"  They'll  fight,"  said  James,  "  and  Mrs.  Nugent 
and  Lucy  won't  speak." 

'  Vera    would    speak,    I'm    sure,"    said   Lucy, 
"  and  as  for  me,  I  seldom  get  a  chance." 

"  A  very  true  saying,"  said  Urquhart.  "  I 
don't  believe  the  Last  Judgment  would  prevent 
Vera  from  talking.  Well,  Macartney,  what  says 
the  Man  of  the  World?" 

"  If  you  mean  me,"  said  James,  "  I  gather  that 
you  all  want  to  go.  Lucy  does,  but  that's  of 
course.  Lancelot  will,  equally  of  course.  But  I 
have  a  suggestion  to  make.  Might  not  the  party 
be  a  little  bigger?  " 

"  It  might,  and  it  should,"  said  Urquhart;  "  in 
fact,  I  asked  Considine  to  join  us.  He  would  love 
it,  but  he  has  to  make  a  speech  at  a  Congress,  or 
read  a  paper,  and  he  says  he  can't  get  out  of  it. 


1 86  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

The  Corbets  can't  come.  I'll  ask  anybody  else 
you  like." 

James,  who  was  now  about  to  enjoy  himself, 
said,  "  I  leave  the  ladies  to  Lucy  and  Mrs.  Nugent. 
Their  choice  would  no  doubt  be  mine.  But  I 
certainly  think  we  want  another  man.  Much  as 
you  and  I  esteem  each  other,  my  dear  Urquhart, 
if  there's  walking  to  be  done  —  serious  walking, 
I  think  we  shall  be  better  three  than  two.  I  don't 
at  all  agree  that  three  is  no  company.  Where 
men  are  concerned  I  think  it  better  than  two  or 
four.  If  only  to  give  a  knee,  or  hold  the  sponge ! 
And  with  more  than  four  you  become  a  horde. 
We  want  a  man  now." 

"  I  think  so  too,"  Urquhart  said.  "  Well, 
who's  your  candidate?  " 

James  meditated,  or  appeared  to  meditate. 
"  Well,"  he  said,  looking  up  and  fixing  Urquhart 
with  his  eyeglass,  "  what  do  you  say  to  Francis 
Lingen?  Lucy  likes  him,  I  am  used  to  him,  and 
you  will  have  to  be  some  day." 

Lucy  was  extremely  annoyed.  That  was  evi- 
dent. She  bit  her  lip,  and  crumbled  her  bread. 
She  said  shortly,  "  Francis  couldn't  walk  to  save 
his  life." 

"  Let  us  put  it  another  way,"  said  James,  en- 


THE  GREAT  SCHEME  187 

joying  his  little  coup.  "  Let  us  say  that  if  he  did 
walk  he  might  save  his  life." 

Urquhart  marked  the  breeze,  and  sailed  into  it. 
"  I  leave  all  that  to  you.  All  I  know  about  Lin- 
gen  is  that  I  have  done  my  best  to  oblige  him  in 
his  private  affairs.  I  confess  that  I  find  him  mild, 
not  to  say  insipid,  but  I  dare  say  he's  the  life  of  a 
party  when  he's  put  to  it." 

"  Oh,"  said  James,  not  averse  from  disparaging 
an  old  rival,  "  Oh,  poor  chap,  he  hasn't  many 
party  tricks.  I'd  back  him  at  cat's-cradle,  and  I 
dare  say  he  plays  a  very  fair  game  at  noughts-and- 
crosses.  Besides,  he'll  do  what  he's  told,  and 
fetch  things  for  you.  You'll  find  him  a  handy  and 
obliging  chap  to  have  about." 

"  Sounds  delightful,"  said  Urquhart  pleasantly. 
He  turned  to  Lucy.  "  We'll  give  him  Lingen, 
shall  we?" 

She  said,  "  By  all  means.  It  doesn't  matter  in 
the  least  to  me." 

So  James  had  his  little  whack,  after  all. 


CHAPTER  XV 

JAMES 

JAMES,  hardly  knowing  it,  was  bracing  him- 
self for  a  serious  situation.  He  had  a  keen 
eye  for  a  man,  a  feeling  for  style;  in  his 
judgment  Urquhart  was  momentous,  so  much  so 
that  he  could  not  afford  to  be  irritated.  Jealousy 
to  him  was  a  weakness,  only  pardonable  when  the 
cause  was  trivial.  It  had  been  trivial  with  poor 
Lingen.  Fishing  in  heavy  water,  a  skipjack 
snaps  at  your  fly,  and  you  jerk  him  out  to  bank 
with  a  Devil  take  you.  But  the  swirling  shoulder, 
the  long  ridge  across  the  pool,  and  the  steady 
strain:  you  are  into  a  twelve-pounder,  and  the 
Devil  is  uninvoked. 

He  asked  Jimmy  to  lunch  at  his  club,  and  took 
the  candid  line  about  the  Norwegian  project. 
Lucy  was  desperately  tired,  he  said,  so  he  was 
pleased  with  the  scheme.  The  poor  dear  girl  was 
run  down,  the  fact  was.  "  You  are  very  good  for 
her,  I  believe.  You  exhilarate  her;  she  forgets 
her  troubles.  She  admires  audacity  —  from  the 
bank." 

188 


JAMES  189 

"  I'll  be  as  audacious  as  you  please,"  said 
Jimmy. 

"  Oh,  you  won't  take  me  in,"  James  said. 
"  I'm  an  old  hand.  I  know  my  Urquhart.  But 
Lucy  will  expect  feats  of  strength.  You  are  a 
champion." 

"  D —  your  eyes !  "  said  Urquhart  to  himself. 

"  The  boy  is  one  of  your  slaves,  too.  I  can't 
tell  you  how  contented  I  am  that  you  approve  of 
him." 

"  He's  all  right,"  said  Urquhart,  who  didn't 
like  all  this.  James,  on  the  contrary,  liked  it  aw- 
fully. He  became  a  chatterbox. 

"  He's  more  than  that  in  his  mother's  esteem. 
But  Lucy's  a  wise  mother.  She  moves  with  her 
finger  on  her  lip.  And  that,  mind  you,  without 
coddling.  She'll  risk  him  to  the  hair's-breadth  — 
and  never  a  word.  But  she  won't  risk  herself. 
Not  she  I  Why,  she  might  be  wanted !  But 
there  it  is.  Women  can  do  these  things,  God 
knows  how!  It's  men  who  make  a  fuss.  Well, 
well  — but  I  babble." 

"  My  dear  man,"  said  Urquhart,  "  not  at  all. 
It's  a  thing  you  never  do." 

Thus  encouraged,  James  plugged  onwards. 
He  talked  more  of  himself  and  his  affairs  than  he 


190  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

had  ever  done  in  his  life  before ;  expatiated  upon 
his  growing  business,  assumed  his  guest's  content- 
ment in  his  happiness,  invited  praise  of  his  Lucy, 
and  was  not  rebuffed  at  their  denial.  Urquhart, 
at  first  amused,  ended  by  being  annoyed.  He  felt 
as  if  James  was  a  busy  dwarf  engaged  in  tying 
him  up  in  lengths  of  black  cotton.  Round  and 
round  he  went,  coil  after  coil  was  added;  before 
luncheon  was  over  he  could  move  neither  hand 
nor  foot.  It  was  rather  ludicrous,  really;  re- 
duced to  speechlessness,  he  sat  and  stared  blankly 
at  a  voluble  James,  prattling  away  about  things 
which  didn't  matter.  He  found  himself  even  ad- 
miring things  about  him:  the  way  he  could  bite 
pull-bread,  for  instance;  the  relish  he  had  for  his 
food.  But  all  this  chatter !  He  was  too  uncom- 
fortable to  see  that  James's  present  relish  was 
chiefly  for  that.  The  Stilton  and  biscuits,  the 
glass  of  port  were  but  salt  to  the  handling  of 
Jimmy  Urquhart;  for  James  was  a  good  fighter 
when  he  had  a  good  man  against  him. 

His  parting  words  were  these :  "  Now  I 
shouldn't  be  surprised  if  she  found  herself  out  of 
conceit  with  this  beano  before  we  start.  She's 
like  that,  you  know.  In  such  a  case  it's  up  to  you 
to  do  something.  You  and  Lancelot  between  you. 


JAMES  191 

That's  an  irresistible  pair.  I  defy  a  gentle- 
woman, and  a  mother,  to  lose  heart.  Come  in 
when  you  can.  Tell  us  tales  of  far  Cashmere. 
Sing  us  songs  of  Araby.  I  won't  promise  to  join 
in  the  chorus  —  if  you  have  choruses ;  but  I  shall 
revel  in  my  quiet  way.  Now  don't  forget.  I 
count  upon  you.  By-bye." 

"  D —  your  eyes,  oh,  d —  your  eyes!"  said 
Jimmy,  shouldering  the  hill  as  he  went  his  way. 

Really,  he  began  to  lose  nerve  a  little  —  and 
for  such  a  sanguine  man  a  little  was  much.  It 
was  as  if  he  was  on  the  downward  slide  of  the 
wave,  no  longer  cresting  the  flow,  which  surged 
on  ahead  of  him,  carrying  him  no  longer.  The 
fact  was  that  he  was  now  at  the  difficult  part  of  an 
enterprise  which  had  been  so  far  too  easy.  At 
the  moment  it  was  not  obvious  to  him  what  he 
was  to  do.  James  was  aware,  that  was  plain; 
and  James  had  a  strong  hand  —  if  he  knew  that 
too,  he  had  an  unassailable  hand.  But  did  he? 
Urquhart  thought  not.  He  chuckled  grimly  to 
himself  as  he  saw  his  complacent  host  taken  at  his 
word.  He  looked  at  his  wrist.  "  Half-past 
three?  D —  him,  I'll  go  and  see  her  now." 

But  Lucy,  as  James  had  truly  put  it,  held  firmly 
to  the  bank.  Glad  of  him  she  certainly  was, 


1 92  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

amused  by  his  audacities;  but  not  tempted  to 
plunge.  He  saw  very  soon  that  he  must  be  care- 
ful with  her.  A  reference  to  the  Hardanger 
woods  at  night,  to  the  absence  of  nightingales,  ab- 
sence of  the  dark  —  she  veiled  her  eyes  with  blank- 
ness,  and  finally  shut  down  the  topic.  "  Don't 
let's  talk  of  what  is  not  in  Norway.  Tell  me 
what  is  there.  I  have  to  keep  Lancelot  supplied 
you  know."  No  man  has  so  little  self-esteem  as 
to  suppose  that  a  woman  can  definitely  put  him 
away.  Urquhart  had  plenty,  and  preferred  to 
think  that  she  thrust  him  more  deeply  within  her 
heart.  "  Quite  right,"  he  said,  and  exerted  him- 
self on  her  amusement.  James,  coming  home 
early,  found  him  on  the  hearth-rug,  talking  really 
well  about  his  flying.  Nobody  could  have  be- 
haved better  than  James.  He  took  his  cup  of 
tea,  listened,  was  interested,  smoked  a  cigarette; 
then  touched  Lucy's  shoulder,  saying,  "  I  leave 
you  to  your  escapades."  He  went  to  his  own 
room,  with  nothing  to  do  there,  and  sat  it  out. 
He  fought  his  nervousness,  refused  to  see  his 
spectres,  sat  deep  in  his  chair,  grimly  smoking. 
He  heard  the  drawing-room  door  open,  Urqu- 
hart's  voice:  "  Yes,  it  will  be  all  right.  Leave  all 
that  to  me."  Lucy  said  something,  he  could  not 


JAMES  193 

tell  what.  His  heart  beat  faster  to  hear  her 
tones.  Urquhart  let  himself  out:  she  had  not 
gone  with  him  to  the  front  door.  Was  that  a 
good  sign?  or  a  bad  one?  He  frowned  over  that 
intricate  question;  but  kept  himself  from  her  until 
dinner-time.  She  might  have  come  in  —  he  half 
expected  her;  but  she  did  not.  What  was  she 
doing  in  there  by  herself?  Was  she  thinking 
where  she  stood?  So  pretty  as  she  was,  so  inno- 
cent, such  a  gentle,  sweet-natured  creature !  Alas, 
alas! 

In  short,  James  was  growing  sentimental  about 
Lucy.  Man  of  fashion  as  he  was,  with  that  keen 
eye  for  style  and  the  mode,  it  may  well  be  that 
Urquhart's  interest  in  her  was  a  kind  of  cachet. 
A  hall-mark!  However  that  may  be,  James 
looked  at  her  more  curiously  during  that  July  than 
he  had  done  since  he  saw  her  first  in  the  garden 
of  Drem  House.  Yes,  Lucy  was  pretty;  more 
than  that,  she  had  charm.  He  saw  it  now.  She 
moved  her  head  about  like  a  little  bird  • —  and  yet 
she  was  not  a  little  woman  by  any  means;  tall, 
rather,  for  a  woman.  But  there  was  an  absence 
of  suspicion  about  Lucy  —  or  rather  of  fundamen- 
tal suspicion  (for  she  was  full  of  little  superficial 
alarms) ,  which  was  infinitely  charming  —  but  how 


i94  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

pathetic!  It  was  deeply  pathetic;  it  made  him 
vaguely  unhappy,  and  for  a  long  time  he  did  not 
know  why  tears  swam  into  his  eyes  as  he  watched 
her  over  the  top  of  his  evening  paper,  or  was 
aware  (at  the  tail  of  his  eye)  of  her  quick 
and  graceful  motions  before  her  dressing-glass. 
Studying  his  feelings  deeply,  as  never  before,  he 
found  himself  out.  It  was  that  he  was  to  lose 
her,  had  perhaps  lost  her,  just  as  he  had  found 
out  how  inexpressibly  dear  she  was  to  be.  And 
amazement  came  upon  him,  and  dismay  to  real- 
ise that  this  sweetness  of  hers,  this  pliancy  of  tem- 
per, this  strength  within  beauty  were  really  there 
in  her  apart  from  him.  As  if  he  had  believed 
that  they  lay  in  his  esteem!  No,  indeed:  they 
were  her  own;  she  could  bestow  them  where  she 
pleased. 

But  he  couldn't  touch  her  —  now :  he  would  die 
sooner  than  touch  her.  And  he  couldn't  say  any- 
thing to  her:  that  would  have  been  to  throw  up 
the  game.  She  should  never  pity  him,  and  give 
him  for  pity  what  would  have  become,  in  the  very 
giving,  negligible  to  herself.  He  knew  himself 
well :  he  could  never  ask  for  a  thing.  No !  but 
could  he  get  her  to  ask  for  something  ?  Ah,  then 
she  might  find  out  whom  she  had  married!  A 


JAMES  195 

man,  he  judged,  of  spendthrift  generosity,  a  prod- 
igal of  himself.  Yes,  that  was  how  it  must  be,  if 
to  be  at  all.  He  kept  his  eyes  wide,  and  followed 
her  every  movement,  with  a  longing  to  help  which 
was  incessant,  like  toothache.  At  the  same  time 
he  was  careful  to  keep  himself  quiet.  Not  a  tone 
of  voice  must  vary,  not  a  daily  action  betray  him. 
That  hand  on  the  shoulder,  now,  when  Urquhart 
was  last  here.  Too  much.  There  must  be  no 
more  of  it,  though  he  could  still  feel  the  softness 
of  her  in  the  tips  of  his  fingers.  Thus  he  braced 
himself. 

He  held  good  cards:  but  he  didn't  know  how 
good. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

AMARI   ALIQUID 

LINGEN  was  exceedingly  gratified  by 
Lucy's  letter.  James  had  thought  the  in- 
vitation should  come  from  her,  and,  as  the 
subject-matter  was  distasteful  to  her,  sooner  than 
discuss  it  she  had  acquiesced.  Few  pin-pricks  had 
rankled  as  this  one.  She  had  never  had  any  feel- 
ing but  toleration  for  Lingen;  James  had  erected 
him  as  a  foible;  and  that  he  should  use  him  now  as 
a  counter-irritant  made  her  both  sore  and  disgust- 
ful. She  wished  to  throw  up  the  whole  scheme, 
but  was  helpless,  because  she  could  neither  tell 
James,  who  would  have  chuckled,  nor  Urquhart 
either.  To  have  told  Urquhart,  whether  she  told 
him  her  reason  or  left  him  to  guess  it,  would  have 
precipitated  a  confession  that  her  present  position 
was  untenable.  In  her  heart  she  knew  it,  for  the 
heart  knows  what  the  mind  stores;  but  she  had  not 
the  courage  to  summon  it  up,  to  table  it,  and  de- 
clare, "  This  robe  is  outworn,  stretched  at  the 
seams,  ragged  at  the  edges.  Away  with  it." 

196 


AMARI  ALIQUID  197 

Just  now  she  could  not  do  it;  and  because  she  could 
not  do  it  she  was  trapped.  James  had  her  under 
his  hand. 

Therefore  she  wrote  her,  "  Dear  Francis,"  and 
had  his  grateful  acceptance,  and  his  solemn  ela- 
tion, visible  upon  his  best  calling  face.  "  I  can't 
tell  you  how  happy  you  have  made  me.  It  is 
beautiful,  even  for  you,  to  make  people  happy. 
That  is  why  you  do  it:  what  else  could  you  do? 
Life  is  made  up  of  illusions,  I  think.  Let  me 
therefore  add  to  the  sum  of  mine  that  you  have 
desired  my  happiness."  This  sort  of  thing,  which 
once  had  stirred  her  to  gentle  amusement,  now 
made  her  words  fall  dry.  '  You  mustn't  forget 
that  James  has  desired  it  too."  "  Oh,"  said 
Francis  Lingen,  "  that's  very  kind  of  him." 

"  Really,  it  is  Mr.  Urquhart's  party.  He  in- 
vented it." 

"  Did  he  desire  my  happiness  too?  "  asked  Lin- 
gen,  provoked  into  mockery  of  his  own  eloquence 
by  these  chills  upon  it. 

"  At  least  he  provided  for  it,"  said  Lucy,  "  and 
that  you  shouldn't  be  uncomfortable  I  have  asked 
Margery  Dacre  to  come." 

Lingen  felt  this  to  be  unkind.  But  he  closed  his 
eyes  and  said,  "  How  splendid." 


198  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

That  was  the  fact.  It  had  been  an  after- 
thought of  hers,  and  partially  countered  on  James. 
Margery  Dacre  also  had  accepted.  She  had  said, 
"  How  too  delicious !  "  James,  when  made 
aware  that  she  was  coming,  ducked  his  head,  it  is 
true,  but  made  a  damaging  defence. 

"Is  she?"  he  said.     "Why?" 

"  She'll  make  our  number  a  square  one,"  she  re- 
plied, "  to  begin  with.  And  she  might  make  it 
more  pleasant  for  the  others  —  Francis  Lingen 
and  Mr.  Urquhart." 

If  she  hadn't  been  self-conscious  she  would 
never  have  said  such  a  thing  as  that.  James's 
commentary,  "  I  see,"  and  the  subsequent  diges- 
tion of  the  remark  by  the  eyeglass,  made  her  burn 
with  shame.  She  felt  spotted,  she  felt  reproach, 
she  looked  backward  with  compunction  and  long- 
ing to  the  beginning  of  things.  There  was  now 
a  tarnish  on  the  day.  Yet  there  was  no  going 
back. 

Clearly  she  was  not  of  the  hardy  stuff  of 
which  sinners  must  be  made  if  they  are  to  be 
cheerful  sinners.  She  was  qualmish  and  easily 
dismayed.  Urquhart  was  away,  or  she  would 
have  dared  the  worst  that  could  befall  her,  and 
dragged  out  of  its  coffer  her  poor  tattered  robe 


AMARI  ALIQUID  199 

of  romance.  Between  them  they  would  have 
owned  to  the  gaping  seams  and  frayed  edges. 
Then  he  might  have  kissed  her  —  and  Good-bye. 
But  he  was  not  at  hand,  and  she  could  not  write 
down  what  she  could  hardly  contemplate  saying. 
Never,  in  fact,  was  a  more  distressful  lady  on 
the  eve  of  a  party  of  pleasure.  Lancelot's  serious 
enjoyment  of  the  prospect,  evident  in  every  line  of 
his  letters,  was  her  only  relish;  but  even  that  could 
not  sting  her  answers  to  vivacity.  "  I  hope  the 
Norwegians  are  very  sensible.  They  will  need 
all  their  sense,  because  we  shall  have  none  when 
the  pirate  is  there."  "  There  used  to  be  vikings 
in  Norway.  They  came  to  England  and  stole 
wives  and  animals.  Now  we  bring  them  a  man 
for  wives.  That  is  what  for  with  the  chill  of." 
"  I  must  have  a  new  reel  to  my  fishing-rod.  The 
old  one  has  never  been  the  same  since  I  made  a 
windlass  of  it  for  the  battleship  when  it  was  a 
canal-boat,  and  it  fell  into  the  water  when  we 
made  a  landslide  and  accident  which  was  buried 
for  three  days  and  had  a  worm  in  the  works. 
Also  a  v.  sharp  knife  for  reindeer,  etc.  They  are 
tough,  I  hear,  and  my  knife  is  sharpest  at  the  back 
since  opening  sardines  and  other  tins,  all  rather 
small."  He  drove  a  fevered  pen,  but  retained 


200  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

presence  of  mind  enough  to  provide  for  his  occa- 
sions :  "  The  excitement  of  Norway  may  lose  me 
some  marks  in  term's  order.  Not  many  I  dare 
say."  Again,  "  When  you  are  excited  reports  go 
bad.  I  have  been  shouting  rather,  kicking  up  a 
shine.  Once  there  was  a  small  fight  which  was 
twigged.  Norway  is  a  serious  matter."  There 
was  an  undercurrent  of  nervousness,  discernible 
only  to  her  eyes.  She  could  not  account  for  it 
till  she  had  him  home,  and  they  were  on  the  edge 
of  adventure.  It  was  lest  he  should  be  seasick 
and  disgrace  himself  in  the  esteem  of  young  Nu- 
gent, who,  as  a  naval  officer,  was  of  course  sea- 
proof.  "  I  expect  Nugent  likes  it  very  rough," 
he  said  —  and  then,  "  I  don't,  you  know,  much. 
Not  for  weeks  at  a  time.  Rather  a  nuisance." 
However,  it  was  solved  in  the  event  by  Nugent 
being  prostrate  from  the  time  they  left  the  Tyne. 
Between  his  spasms  he  urged  his  mother  to  explain 
that  Lord  Nelson  was  always  seasick.  But  Lance- 
lot was  very  magnanimous  about  it. 

There  was  diversion  in  much  of  this,  and  she 
used  it  to  lighten  her  letters  to  Urquhart,  which, 
without  it,  had  been  as  flat  as  yesterday's  soda- 
water.  As  the  time  came  near  when  they  should 
leave  home  she  grew  very  heavy,  had  forebodings, 


AMARI  ALIQUID  201 

wild  desires  to  be  done  with  it  all.  Then  came 
a  visitation  from  the  clear-eyed  Mabel  and  a 
cleansing  of  the  conscience. 

Mabel  said  that  she  was  sorry  to  miss  Norway. 
It  would  have  amused  her  enormously.  '  To  see 
you  in  the  saddle,  with  two  led  horses !  "  She 
always  talked  as  if  she  was  an  elder  sister.  "  I 
almost  threw  Laurence  over;  but  of  course  I 
couldn't  do  that.  He's  so  dependent  and  silent 
and  pathetic  —  but  thank  goodness,  he  hasn't 
found  out,  like  James,  the  real  use  of  wives. 
That  is,  to  have  somebody  to  grumble  to  who 
really  minds.  There's  your  James  for  you.  He 
doesn't  want  to  go  a  bit;  he'd  much  rather  be  at 
Harrogate  or  somewhere  of  that  sort.  Perhaps 
he'd  like  Homburg.  But  he  wouldn't  go  for  the 
world.  He's  not  pathetic  at  all,  though  he  wants 
to  be;  but  he  wants  to  be  sarcastic  at  the  same 
time,  and  is  cross  because  the  two  things  won't  go 
together.  Of  course  he  stuck  in  Francis  Lingen. 
He  would.  As  if  he  cared  about  Francis  Lingen, 
a  kind  of  poodle  !  " 

"  You  oughtn't  to  abuse  James  to  me,"  Lucy 
said,  not  very  stoutly;  "  I  don't  abuse  Laurence." 

"Abuse  him!"  cried  Mabel.  "Good  Heav- 
ens, child,  I  only  say  out  loud  what  you  are  saying 


202  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

to  yourself  all  day.  We  may  as  well  know  where 
we  are."  Then  came  a  pause;  and  then,  "  I  sup- 
pose you  and  Jimmy  Urquhart  are  in  a  mess." 

Lucy  said  nothing;  whereupon  Mabel  showed 
her  clear  sight.  "  And  I  suppose  you  know  now 
who  turned  the  light  off."  At  that  terrible  sur- 
mise Lucy  got  up  and  stood  above  her  sister. 
"  Mabel,  I  don't  know  what  to  do." 

"  I  am  sure  you  don't,"  said  Mabel.  "  On  the 
other  hand,  you  know  what  you  have  to  do." 

"Yes,"  Lucy  replied;  "  but  it  isn't  so  easy  as 
you  would  think.  You  see,  I  have  never  spoken 
to  him  about  it,  nor  he  to  me ;  and  it  seems  almost 
impossible  to  begin  —  now." 

Mabel  was  out  of  her  depth.  "  Do  you 
mean — ?  What  do  you  really  mean?  " 

"  I  mean  exactly  what  I  say.  I  found  out 
the  truth,  by  a  kind  of  accident  —  one  day.  It 
wasn't  possible  to  doubt.  Well,  then  —  it  went 
on,  you  know  — " 

"  Of  course  it  did,"  said  Mabel.     "  Well?  " 

— "  And  there  was  no  disguise  about  it,  after 
there  couldn't  be." 

"  Why  should  there  be,  if  there  couldn't  be?  " 
Mabel  was  at  her  wits'  end. 

u  There  was  no  disguise  about  it,  while  it  was 


AMARI  ALIQUID  203 

going  on,  you  know.  But  in  the  daytime  —  well, 
we  seemed  to  be  ordinary  people,  and  nothing  was 
said.  Now  do  you  see?  " 

Mabel  did.  "  It  makes  it  very  awkward  for 
you.  But  feeling  as  you  do  now,  you  simply  must 
have  it  out." 

"  I  can't,"  Lucy  said  with  conviction.  "  I  know 
I  can't  do  that.  No,  it  must  stop  another  way. 
I  must  —  be  hateful." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  make  him  dislike  you?  To 
put  him  off  ?  " 

Lucy  nodded.     "  Something  like  that." 

"Try  it,"  said  Mabel. 

"  You  mean  it  won't  answer?  " 

"  I  mean  that  you  won't,  my  dear.  You  are 
not  that  sort.  Much  too  kind.  Now  I  could  be 
perfectly  beastly,  if  I  felt  it  the  only  thing." 

Lucy  was  in  a  hard  stare.  "  I  don't  feel  kind 
just  now.  James  has  given  me  a  horror  of  things 
of  the  sort.  I  don't  believe  he  meant  it.  I  think 
he  felt  snappish  and  thought  he  would  relieve  his 
feelings  that  way.  But  there  it  is.  He  has  made 
it  all  rather  disgusting.  It's  become  like  a  kind 
of  intrigue  of  vulgar  people,  in  a  comedy." 

'  These  things  do  when  you  take  them  out  and 
look  at  them,"  Mabel  said.     "  Like  sham  jewel- 


204  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

lery.  They  are  all  right  in  their  cases.  The 
velvet  lining  does  so  much.  But  although  you 
may  be  disgusted  with  James's  handling  of  your 
private  affairs,  you  are  not  disgusted  with  —  the 
other?" 

"  No,  I  suppose  not.  I  really  don't  know. 
He  is  the  most  understanding  man  in  the  world, 
and  I  would  trust  him  through  everything.  I 
don't  think  he  could  tell  me  an  untruth.  Not  one 
that  mattered,  anyhow.  I  could  see  him  go  away 
from  me  for  a  year,  for  two,  and  not  hear  a  word 
from  him,  and  yet  be  sure  that  he  would  come 
back,  and  be  the  same,  and  know  me  to  be  the 
same.  I  feel  so  safe  with  him,  so  proud  of  his 
liking  me,  so  settled  in  life  —  I  never  felt  settled 
before  —  like  being  in  a  nest.  He  makes  every- 
thing I  love  or  like  seem  more  beautiful  and 
precious  —  Lancelot,  oh,  I  am  much  prouder  of 
Lancelot  than  I  used  to  be.  He  has  shown  me 
things  in  Lancelot  which  I  never  saw.  He  has 
made  the  being  Lancelot's  mother  seem  a  more 
important,  a  finer  thing.  I  don't  know  how  to  say 
it,  but  he  has  simply  enhanced  everything  —  as 
you  say,  like  a  velvet  lining  to  a  jewel.  All  this 
is  true  —  and  something  in  me  calls  for  him,  and 
urges  me  to  go  to  him.  But  now  —  but  yet  —  all 


AMARI  ALIQUID  205 

this  hateful  jealousy  —  this  playing  off  one  man 
against  another  —  Francis  Lingen !  As  if  I  ever 
had  a  minute's  thought  of  Francis  Lingen  —  oh, 
it's  really  disgusting.  I  didn't  think  any  one  in 
our  world  could  be  like  that.  It  spots  me  —  I 
want  to  be  clean.  I'd  much  rather  be  miserable 
than  feel  dirty." 

Here  she  stopped,  on  the  edge  of  tears,  which 
a  sudden  access  of  anger  dried  up.  She  began 
again,  more  querulously.  "  It's  his  fault,  of 
course.  It  was  outrageous  what  he  did.  I'm 
angry  with  him  because  I  can't  be  angry  with  my- 
self—  for  not  being  angry.  How  could  I  be 
angry?  Oh,  Mabel,  if  it  had  been  James  after 
all!  But  of  course  it  wasn't,  and  couldn't  be; 
and  I  should  be  angry  with  him  if  I  wasn't  so 
awfully  sorry  for  him." 

Mabel  stared.  "  Sorry  for  James!  " 
'  Yes,  naturally.  He's  awfully  simple,  you 
know,  and  really  rather  proud  of  me  in  his  way. 
I  see  him  looking  at  me  sometimes,  wondering 
what  he's  done.  It's  pathetic.  But  that's  not  the 
point.  The  point  is  that  I  can't  get  out." 

"  Do  you  want  to  get  out?  "  Mabel  asked. 
1  Yes,  I  do  in  a  way.     It  has  to  be  —  and  the 
sooner  the  better.     And  whether  I  do  or  not,  I 


206  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

don't  like  to  feel  that  I  can't.     Nobody  likes  to 
be  tied." 

"  Then  nobody  should  be  married,"  said  Mabel, 
who  had  listened  to  these  outbursts  of  speech,  and 
pauses  which  had  been  really  to  find  words  rather 
than  breath,  with  staring  and  hard-rimmed  eyes. 
She  had  a  gift  of  logic,  and  could  be  pitiless. 
"  What  it  comes  to,  you  know,"  she  said,  "  is  that 
you  want  to  have  your  fun  in  private.  We  all 
do,  I  suppose ;  but  that  can't  come  off  in  nine  cases 
out  of  ten.  Especially  with  a  man  like  James, 
who  is  as  sharp  as  a  razor,  and  just  as  edgy. 
The  moment  anybody  peers  at  you  you  show  a 
tarnish,  and  get  put  off.  It  doesn't  look  to  me  as 
if  you  thought  so  highly  of  —  the  other  as  you 
think  you  do.  After  all,  if  you  come  to  that,  the 
paraphernalia  of  a  wedding  is  pretty  horrid;  one 
feels  awfully  like  a  heifer  at  the  Cattle  Show. 
At  least,  I  did.  The  complacency  of  the  bride- 
groom is  pretty  repulsive.  You  feel  like  a  really 
fine  article.  But  one  lives  it  down,  if  one  means 
it." 

Lucy  told  her  to  go,  or  as  good  as  told  her. 
Sisters  may  be  plain  with  each  other.  She  wasn't 
able  to  answer  her,  though  she  felt  that  an  answer 
there  was. 


AMARI  ALIQUID  207 

What  she  had  said  was  partly  true.  Lucy  was 
a  romantic  without  knowing  it.  So  had  Psyche 
been,  and  the  fatal  lamp  should  have  told  her  so. 
The  god  removed  himself.  Thus  she  felt  it  to  be. 
He  seemed  just  outside  the  door,  and  a  word,  a 
look,  would  recall  him  to  his  dark  beauty  of  pres- 
ence. That  he  was  beautiful  so  she  knew  too 
well,  that  he  was  unbeautiful  in  the  glare  of  day 
she  felt  rather  than  knew.  The  fault,  she  sus- 
pected, lay  in  her,  who  could  not  see  him  in  the 
light  without  the  blemish  of  circumstance  —  not 
his,  but  circumstance,  in  whose  evil  shade  he  must 
seem  smirched.  What  could  she  do  with  her 
faulty  vision,  but  send  him  away?  Was  that  not 
less  dishonourable  than  to  bid  him  remain  and 
dwindle  as  she  looked  at  him?  What  a  kink  in 
her  affairs,  when  she  must  be  cruel  to  her  love,  not 
because  she  loved  him  less,  but  rather  that  she 
might  love  him  more  ! 

But  the  spirit  of  adventure  grew  upon  her  in 
spite  of  herself,  the  sense  of  something  in  the 
wind,  of  the  morning  bringing  one  nearer  to  a 
great  day.  It  pervaded  the  house;  Crewdson  got 
in  the  way  of  saying,  "  When  we  are  abroad,  we 
shall  find  that  useful,  ma'am  ";  or  "  Mr.  Macart- 
ney will  be  asking  for  that  in  Norway."  As  for 


208  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

James,  it  had  changed  his  spots,  if  not  his  nature. 
James  bought  marvellous  climbing  boots,  binocu- 
lars, compasses  of  dodgy  contrivance,  sandwich- 
cases,  drinking-flasks,  a  knowing  hat.  He  read 
about  Norway,  studied  a  dictionary,  and  ended  by 
talking  about  it,  and  all  to  do  with  it,  without  any 
pragmatism.  Lucy  found  out  how  he  relied  up- 
on Urquhart  and  sometimes  forgot  that  he  was 
jealous  of  him.  Jealous  he  was,  but  not  without 
hope.  For  one  thing,  he  liked  a  fight,  with  a  good 
man.  Lingen  caught  the  epidemic,  and  ceased  to 
think  or  talk  about  himself.  He  had  heard  of 
carpets  to  be  had,  of  bold  pattern  and  primary 
colouring;  he  had  heard  of  bridal  crowns  of  silver- 
gilt  worthy  of  any  collector's  cabinet.  He  also 
bought  boots  and  tried  his  elegant  leg  in  a  flame- 
coloured  sock.  And  to  crown  the  rocking  edifice, 
Lancelot  came  home  in  a  kind  of  still  ecstasy  which 
only  uttered  itself  in  convulsions  of  the  limbs,  and 
sudden  and  ear-piercing  whistles  through  the 
fingers.  From  him  above  all  she  gained  assur- 
ance. "  Oh,  Mr.  Urquhart,  he'll  put  all  that 
straight,  I  bet  you  —  in  two  ticks !  .  .  ."  and 
once  it  was,  "  I  say,  Mamma,  I  wonder  where  you 
and  I  would  be  without  Mr.  Urquhart."  James 
heard  him,  and  saw  Lucy  catch  her  breath.  Not 
very  pleasant. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE   SHIVERING   FIT 

THEY  were  to  start  on  the  8th  of  August, 
and  it  was  now  the  5th.  Packing  had  be- 
gun, and  Crewdson,  as  usual,  was  trouble- 
some. He  had  the  habit  of  appearing  before 
Lucy  and  presenting  some  small  deficiency  as  a 
final  cause  of  ruin  and  defeat.  "  I  can't  find  any 
of  the  Brown  Polish,  ma'am.  I  don't  know  what 
Mr.  Macartney  will  do  without  it."  This,  or 
something  like  it,  had  become  a  classic  in  the 
family.  It  had  always  been  part  of  the  fun  of 
going  away.  But  this  year  Lucy  was  fretted  by  it. 
She  supposed  herself  run  down  and  whipped  her- 
self to  work.  She  found  herself,  too,  lingering 
about  the  house,  with  an  affection  for  the  familiar 
aspect  of  corners,  vistas,  tricks  of  light  and 
shadow,  which  she  had  never  thought  to  possess. 
She  felt  extremely  unwilling  to  leave  it  all.  It 
was  safety,  it  was  friendliness;  it  asked  no  effort 
of  her.  To  turn  away  from  its  lustrous  and  or- 
dered elegance  and  face  the  unknown  gave  her  a 

209 


210  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

pain  in  the  heart.  It  was  odd  to  feel  homesick 
before  she  had  left  home;  but  that  was  the  sum 
of  it.  She  was  homesick.  Urquhart  was  very 
much  in  her  mind;  a  letter  of  his  was  in  her  writ- 
ing-table drawer,  under  lock  and  key;  but  Urqu- 
hart seemed  part  of  a  vague  menace  now,  while 
James,  though  he  did  his  unconscious  utmost  to 
defeat  himself,  got  his  share  of  the  sunset  glow 
upon  the  house.  Fanciful,  nervous,  weary  of  it 
all  as  she  was,  she  devoted  herself  to  her  duties; 
and  then,  on  this  fifth  of  August,  in  the  afternoon, 
she  had  a  waking  vision,  perfectly  distinct,  and  so 
vivid  that,  disembodied  and  apart,  she  could  see 
herself  enacting  it.  It  was  followed  by  a  shiver- 
ing fit  and  depression;  but  that  must  tell  its  own 
tale. 

The  vision  occurred  while  she  was  on  her  knees, 
busied  beside  a  trunk,  turning  over  garments  of 
lace  and  fine  linen  and  pale  blue  ribbons  which  a 
maid,  in  the  same  fair  attitude,  was  bestowing  as 
she  received  them.  Lancelot  was  out  for  the  aft- 
ernoon with  Crewdson  and  a  friend.  They  had 
gone  to  the  Zoological  Gardens,  and  would  not  be 
back  till  late.  She  had  the  house  to  herself;  it 
was  cool  and  shadowed  from  the  sun.  The 


THE  SHIVERING  FIT  211 

Square,  muffled  in  the  heat,  gave  no  disturbing 
sounds.  Looking  up  suddenly,  for  no  apparent 
reason,  she  saw  herself  with  Jimmy  Urquhart  in 
a  great  empty,  stony  place,  and  felt  the  dry  wind 
which  blew  upon  them  both.  All  but  her  own 
face  was  visible;  of  that  she  saw  nothing  but  the 
sharp  outline  of  her  cheek,  which  was  very  white. 
She  saw  herself  holding  her  hat,  bending  side- 
ways to  the  gale ;  she  saw  her  skirt  cling  about  her 
legs,  and  flack  to  get  free.  She  wondered  why 
she  didn't  hold  it  down.  The  wind  was  a  hot  one ; 
she  felt  that  it  was  so.  It  made  her  head  ache, 
and  burned  her  cheek-bone.  Urquhart  was  quite 
visible.  He  looked  into  the  teeth  of  the  wind, 
frowning  and  fretful.  Why  didn't  she  say  some- 
thing to  him?  She  had  a  conviction  that  it  was 
useless.  "  There's  nothing  to  say,  nothing  to 
say."  That  rang  in  her  head,  like  a  church  bell. 
"  Nothing  to  say,  nothing  to  say."  A  sense  of 
desolation  and  total  loss  oppressed  her.  She  had 
no  hope.  The  vacancy,  the  silence,  the  enormous 
dry  emptiness  about  her  seemed  to  shut  out  all  her 
landmarks.  Why  didn't  she  think  of  Lancelot? 
She  wondered  why,  but  realised  that  Lancelot 
meant  nothing  out  there.  She  saw  herself  turn 
about.  She  cried  out,  "James!  James  I  "  started 


212  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

up  with  a  sense  of  being  caught,  and  saw  the 
maid's  face  of  scare.  She  was  awake  in  a  mo- 
ment. "  What  is  it,  ma'am?  What  is  it?  " 

Lucy  had  recovered  her  faculties :  "  Nothing, 
Emily;  it's  nothing.  I  was  giddy."  But  she  was 
shivering  and  couldn't  go  on.  "  I  think  I'll  lie 
down  for  a  minute,"  she  said,  and  asked  for  the 
aspirin.  She  took  two  tabloids  and  a  sip  of  water, 
was  covered  up  and  left  to  herself.  Emily  tip- 
toed away,  full  of  interest  in  the  affair. 

The  shivering  fit  lasted  the  better  part  of  an 
hour.  Lucy  crouched  and  suffered,  open-eyed  but 
without  any  consciousness.  Something  had  hap- 
pened, was  happening  still;  a  storm  was  raging 
overhead;  she  lay  quaking  and  waited  for  it  to 
pass.  She  fell  asleep,  slept  profoundly,  and 
awoke  slowly  to  a  sense  of  things.  She  had  no 
doubt  of  what  lay  immediately  before  her.  Dis- 
relish of  the  Norwegian  expedition  was  now  a 
reasonable  thing.  Either  it  must  be  given  up, 
or  the  disaster  reckoned  with.  Advienne  que 
pourra.  But  in  either  case  she  must  "  have  it 
out"  with  James.  What  did  that  mean? 
Jimmy  Urquhart  would  be  thrown  over.  He 
would  go  —  and  she  would  not.  She  lay,  pictur- 
ing rather  than  reasoning;  saw  him  superbly  ca- 


THE  SHIVERING  FIT  213 

pable,  directing  everything.  She  felt  a  pride  in 
him,  and  in  herself  for  discovering  how  fine  he 
was.  His  fineness,  indeed,  was  a  thing  shared. 
She  felt  a  sinking  of  the  heart  to  know  that  she 
could  not  be  there.  But  the  mere  thought  of  that 
sickened  her.  Out  of  the  question. 

She  must  "  have  it  out "  with  James.  That 
might  be  rather  dreadful;  it  might  take  her  where 
she  must  refuse  to  go  —  but  on  the  whole,  she 
didn't  think  it  need.  The  certainty  that  she 
couldn't  go  to  Norway,  that  James  must  be  made 
to  see  it,  was  a  moral  buttress.  Timidity  of 
James  would  not  prevail  against  it.  Besides  that, 
deeply  within  herself,  lay  the  conviction  that 
James  was  kind  if  you  took  him  the  right  way. 
He  was  irritable,  and  very  annoying  when  he  was 
sarcastic;  but  he  was  good  at  heart.  And  it  was 
odd,  she  thought,  that  directly  she  got  into  an 
awkward  place  with  a  flirtation,  her  first  impulse 
was  to  go  to  James  to  get  her  out.  In  her  dream 
she  had  called  to  him,  though  Urquhart  had  been 
there.  Why  was  that? 

She  was  thinking  now  like  a  child,  which  indeed 
she  was  where  such  matters  were  concerned. 
She  was  not  really  contrite  for  what  she  had  done, 
neither  regretted  that  she  had  done  it,  nor  that  it 


2i4  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

was  done  with.  She  wanted  to  discharge  her 
bosom  of  perilous  stuff.  James  would  forgive 
her.  He  must  not  know,  of  course,  what  he  was 
forgiving ;  but  —  yes,  he  would  forgive  her. 

At  six  or  thereabouts,  listening  for  it,  she  heard 
the  motor  bring  James  home ;  she  heard  his  latch- 
key, and  the  shutting  of  the  door  behind  him. 
Her  heart  beat  high,  but  she  did  not  falter.  He 
was  reading  a  letter  in  the  hall  when  she  came 
downstairs;  he  was  very  much  aware  of  her,  but 
pretended  not  to  be.  She  stood  on  the  bottom 
stair  looking  at  him  with  wide  and  fixed  eyes;  but 
he  would  not  look  up.  He  was  not  just  then  in  a 
mood  either  to  make  advances  or  to  receive  them. 
His  grievance  was  heavy  upon  him. 

"  James,"  said  Lucy,  "  I've  been  listening  for 
you." 

"  Too  good,"  said  he,  and  went  on  with  his 
letter. 

"  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  I  don't  think  —  that 
I  don't  much  want  to  go  to  Norway." 

Then  he  did  look  up,  keenly,  with  a  drawn  ap- 
pearance about  his  mouth,  showing  his  teeth. 
"Eh?"  he  said.  "Oh,  absurd."  He  occupied 
himself  with  his  letter,  folding  it  for  its  env-elope, 


THE  SHIVERING  FIT  215 

while  she  watched  him  with  a  pale  intensity  which 
ought  to  have  told  him,  and  perhaps  did  tell  him, 
what  she  was  suffering. 

"  I  don't  think  you  should  call  me  absurd,"  she 
said.  "  I  was  never  very  certain  of  it." 

"  But,  my  dearest  child,  you  made  me  certain, 
at  any  rate,"  he  told  her.  "  You  made  everybody 
certain.  So  much  so  that  I  have  the  tickets  in  my 
pocket  at  this  moment." 

"  I'm  very  sorry.  I  could  pay  for  mine,  of 
course  —  and  I'm  sure  Vera  would  look  after 
Lancelot.  I  wouldn't  disappoint  him  for  the 
world." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  tell  Urquhart?  "  said 
James.  Her  eyes  paled. 

"  I  believe  that  he  would  take  it  very  simply," 
she  said.  James  plunged  his  hands  into  his 
pockets.  He  thought  that  they  were  on  the  edge 
of  the  gulf. 

"  Look  here,  Lucy,"  he  said;  "  hadn't  you  bet- 
ter tell  me  something  more  about  this?  Perhaps 
you  will  come  into  the  library  for  a  few  minutes." 
He  led  the  way  without  waiting  for  her,  and  she 
stood  quaking  where  she  was. 

She  was  making  matters  worse :  she  saw  that 
now.  Naturally  she  couldn't  tell  James  the  real 


216  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

state  of  the  case,  because  that  would  involve  her 
in  history.  James  would  have  to  understand  that 
he  had  been  believed  to  have  wooed  her  when  he 
had  done  nothing  of  the  kind.  That  was  a  thing 
which  nothing  in  the  world  would  bring  her  to 
reveal  to  him.  And  if  she  left  that  out  and  con- 
fined herself  to  her  own  feelings  for  Urquhart  — 
how  was  all  that  to  be  explained?  Was  it  fair 
to  herself,  or  to  Urquhart,  to  isolate  the  flowering 
of  an  affair  unless  you  could  show  the  germinating 
of  it?  Certainly  it  wasn't  fair  to  herself  —  as 
for  Urquhart,  it  may  be  that  he  didn't  deserve  any 
generous  treatment.  She  knew  that  there  was  no 
defence  for  him,  though  plenty  of  excuse  —  pos- 
sibly. No  —  she  must  go  through  with  the  Nor- 
way business.  Meantime  James  was  waiting  for 
her. 

She  stood  by  the  library  table  while  James,  back 
to  the  fireplace,  lifted  his  head  and  watched  her 
through  cigar-smoke.  He  had  no  mercy  for  her 
at  this  moment.  Suspicions  thronged  his  dark- 
ened mind.  But  nothing  of  her  rueful  beauty 
escaped  him.  The  flush  of  sleep  was  upon  her, 
and  her  eyes  were  full  of  trouble. 

"  It  isn't  that  I  have  any  reason  which  would 
appeal  to  you,"  she  told  him.  She  faltered  her 


THE  SHIVERING  FIT  217 

tale.  "  I  think  I  have  been  foolish  —  I  know 
that  I'm  very  tired  and  worried ;  but  —  I  have  had 
presentiments." 

James  clicked  his  tongue,  which  he  need  not 
have  done  —  as  he  knew  very  well.  But  he  had 
not  often  been  arbiter  of  late. 

"  My  child,"  he  said,  "  really  — "  and  annoyed 
her. 

"  Of  course  you  are  impatient.  I  can't  help  it, 
all  the  same.  I  am  telling  you  the  truth.  I  don't 
know  what  is  going  to  happen.  I  feel  afraid  of 
something  —  I  don't  know  what  — " 

"  Run  down,"  said  James,  looking  keenly  at  her, 
but  kindly;  "  end  of  the  season.  Two  days  at  sea 
will  do  the  job  for  you.  Anyhow,  my  dear,  we 
go."  He  threw  himself  in  his  deep  chair, 
stretched  his  legs  out  and  looked  at  Lucy. 

She  was  deeply  disappointed;  she  had  pictured 
it  so  differently.  He  would  have  understood  her, 
she  had  thought.  But  he  seemed  to  be  in  his  worst 
mood.  She  stood,  the  picture  of  distressful  un- 
certainty, hot  and  wavering;  her  head  hung,  her 
hand  moving  a  book  about  on  the  table.  To  his 
surprise  and  great  discomfort  he  now  discerned 
that  she  was  silently  crying.  Tears  were  falling, 
she  made  no  effort  to  stop  them,  nor  to  conceal 


218  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

them.  Her  weakness  and  dismay  were  too  much 
for  her.  She  accepted  the  relief,  and  neither 
knew  nor  cared  whether  he  saw  it. 

James  was  not  hard-hearted  unless  his  vanity 
was  hurt.  This  was  the  way  to  touch  him,  as  he 
was  prepared  to  be  touched.  "  My  child,"  he 
said,  "  why,  what's  the  matter  with  you?  "  She 
shook  her  head,  tried  to  speak,  failed,  and  went 
on  crying. 

"  Lucy,"  said  James,  "  come  here  to  me."  She 
obeyed  him  at  once. 

Something  about  her  attitude  moved  him  to 
something  more  than  pity.  Her  pretty  frock  and 
her  refusal  to  be  comforted  by  it;  her  youthful 
act — for  Lucy  had  never  yet  cried  before  him; 
her  flushed  cheeks,  her  tremulous  lips  —  what? 
If  I  could  answer  the  question  I  should  resolve  the 
problem  of  the  flight  of  souls.  He  looked  at  her 
and  knew  that  he  desired  her  above  all  things.  A 
Lucy  in  tears  was  a  new  Lucy;  a  James  who  could 
afford  to  let  his  want  be  seen  was  a  new  James. 
That  which  stirred  him  —  pity,  need,  desire, 
kindness  —  vibrated  in  his  tones.  To  hear  was 
to  obey. 

He  took  her  two  hands  and  drew  her  down  to 
his  knee.  He  made  her  sit  there,  embraced  her 


THE  SHIVERING  FIT  219 

with  his  arm.  "  There,  my  girl,  there,"  he  said; 
"  now  let  me  know  all  about  it.  Upon  my  soul, 
you  are  a  baffling  young  woman.  You  will,  and 
you  won't;  and  then  you  cry,  and  I  become  sen- 
timental. I  shall  end  by  falling  in  love  with 
you." 

At  these  strange  words  she  broke  down  alto- 
gether, and  sobbed  her  soul  out  upon  his  shoulder. 
Again  he  assured  himself  that  he  had  never  seen 
her  cry  before.  He  was  immensely  touched  by  it, 
and  immensely  at  his  ease  too.  His  moral  status 
was  restored  to  him.  He  knew  now  what  he 
wanted.  "  You  poor  little  darling,  I  can't  bear  to 
see  you  cry  so.  There  then  —  cry  away,  if  it  does 
you  good.  What  does  me  good  is  to  have  you 
here.  Now  what  made  you  so  meek  as  to  come 
when  I  called  you?  And  why  weren't  you  afraid 
that  I  should  eat  you  up  ?  So  I  might,  Lucy,  you 
know;  for  you've  made  me  madly  in  love  with 
you." 

It  seemed  to  her  beating  heart  that  indeed  he 
was.  He  held  her  very  close,  kissed  her  wet 
cheeks,  her  wet  eyes  and  her  lips.  She  struggled 
in  his  embrace,  but  not  for  long.  She  yielded,  and 
returned  his  kisses.  So  they  clung  together,  and 
in  the  silence,  while  time  seemed  to  stand  still,  it 


220  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

really  did  nothing  of  the  kind;  for  if  he  gained 
experience  she  lost  it. 

He  must  have  grown  more  experienced,  for  he 
was  able  to  return  without  embarrassment  to  the 
affairs  so  strangely  interrupted.  She  must  have 
grown  less  so,  because  she  answered  him  simply, 
like  a  child.  He  asked  her  what  had  upset  her, 
and  she  told  him,  a  dream.  A  dream?  Had  she 
been  asleep?  No,  it  was  a  waking  dream.  She 
told  him  exactly  what  it  was.  She  was  with  Mr. 
Urquhart  in  a  horrible  place  —  a  dry,  sandy  place 
with  great  rocks  in  it.  "  And  where  did  I  come 
in?"  "You  didn't  come  in.  That  was  why  I 
called  you."  "  You  called  for  me,  did  you?  Bui 
Urquhart  was  there?"  u  Yes,  I  suppose  he  was 
still  there.  I  didn't  look."  "  Why  did  you  call 
for  me,  Lucy?"  "Because  I  was  frightened." 
"  I'm  grateful  to  you  for  that.  That's  good  news 
to  me,"  he  said ;  and  then  when  he  kissed  her  again, 
she  opened  her  eyes  very  wide,  and  said,  "  Oh, 
James,  I  thought  you  didn't  care  for  me  any 
more." 

James,  master  of  himself,  smiled  grimly.  "  I 
thought  as  much,"  he  said;  "  and  so  you  became 
interested  in  somebody  else  ?  " 


THE  SHIVERING  FIT  221 

Lucy  sat  up.  "  No,"  she  said,  "  I  became  in- 
terested in  you  first." 

That  beat  him.  "  You  became  interested  in 
me?  Why?  Because  I  didn't  care  for  you?" 

"No,"  she  said  sharply;  "no!  Because  I 
thought  that  you  did." 

James  felt  rather  faint.  "  I  can't  follow  you. 
You  thought  that  I  didn't,  you  said?  "  Lucy  was 
now  excited,  and  full  of  her  wrongs. 

"  How  extraordinary !  Surely  you  see  ?  I  had 
reason  to  think  that  you  cared  for  me  very  much 
—  oh,  very  much  indeed;  and  then  I  found  out 
that  you  didn't  care  a  bit  more  than  usual;  and 
then  —  well,  then  — "  James,  who  was  too  apt 
to  undervalue  people,  did  not  attempt  to  pursue 
the  embroilment.  But  he  valued  her  in  this  melt- 
ing mood.  He  held  her  very  close. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  and  now  you  find  that  I  do 
care  —  and  what  then?  " 

She  looked  at  him,  divinely  shy.  "  Oh,  if  you 
really  care  — " 

This  would  have  made  any  man  care.  "  Well, 
if  I  really  do— ?" 

"  Ah !  "  She  hid  her  face  on  his  shoulder.  "  I 
shall  love  to  be  in  Norway." 


222  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

James  felt  very  triumphant;  but  true  to  type, 
he  sent  her  upstairs  to  dress  with  the  needless  in- 
junction to  make  herself  look  pretty. 

Presently,  however,  he  stood  up  and  stared  hard 
at  the  ground.  "Good  Lord!"  he  said.  "I 
wonder  what  the  devil — "  Then  he  raised  his 
eyebrows  to  their  height.  "  This  is  rather  inter- 
esting." 

The  instinct  was  strong  in  him  to  make  her  con- 
fess —  for  clearly  there  was  something  to  be 
known.  But  against  that  several  things  worked. 
One  was  his  scorn  of  the  world  at  large.  He  felt 
that  it  was  beneath  him  to  enquire  what  that  might 
be  endeavouring  against  his  honour  or  peace. 
Another  —  and  a  very  new  feeling  to  him  —  was 
one  of  compassion.  The  poor  girl  had  cried  be- 
fore him  —  hidden  her  face  on  his  shoulder  and 
cried.  To  use  strength,  male  strength,  upon  that 
helplessness;  to  break  a  butterfly  on  a  wheel — •• 
upon  his  soul,  he  thought  he  couldn't  do  it. 

And  after  all  —  whether  it  was  Lingen  or 
Urquhart  —  he  was  safe.  He  knew  he  was  safe 
because  he  wanted  her.  He  knew  that  he  could 
not  want  what  was  not  for  him.  That  was  against 
Nature.  True  to  type  again,  he  laughed  at  him- 


THE  SHIVERING  FIT  223 

self,  but  owned  it.  She  had  been  gone  but  five 
or  ten  minutes,  but  he  wanted  to  see  her  again  — 
now.  He  craved  the  sight  of  that  charming  dif- 
fidence of  the  woman  who  knows  herself  desired. 
He  became  embarrassed  as  he  thought  of  it,  but 
did  not  cease  to  desire.  Should  he  yield  to  the 
whim  —  or  hold  himself  .  .  .  ? 

At  that  moment  Lancelot  was  admitted.  He 
heard  him  race  upstairs  calling,  "  Mamma, 
Mamma  !  frightfully  important !  "  That  decided 
the  thing.  He  opened  his  door,  listening  to  what 
followed.  He  heard  Lucy's  voice,  "  I'm  here. 
You  can  come  in  .  .  ."  and  was  amazed.  Was 
that  Lucy's  voice?  She  was  happy,  then.  He 
knew  that  by  her  tone.  There  was  a  lift  in  it,  a 
timbre.  Was  it  just  possible,  by  some  chance,  that 
he  had  been  a  damned  fool?  He  walked  the 
room  in  some  agitation,  then  went  hastily  upstairs 
to  dress. 

Whether  to  a  new  James  or  not,  dinner  had  a 
new  Lucy  to  reveal;  a  Lucy  full  of  what  he  called 
"  feminine  charm  " ;  a  Lucy  who  appealed  to  him 
across  the  table  for  support  against  a  positive 
Lancelot;  who  brought  him  in  at  all  points;  who 
was  concerned  for  his  opinion;  who  gave  him  shy 
glances,  who  could  even  afford  to  be  pert.  He, 


224  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

being  essentially  a  fair-weather  man,  was  able  to 
meet  her  half-way  —  no  more  than  that,  because 
he  was  what  he  was,  always  his  own  detective. 
The  discipline  which  he  had  taught  himself  to  pre- 
serve was  for  himself  first  of  all. 

Lancelot  noticed  his  father.  "  I  say,"  he  said, 
when  he  and  Lucy  were  in  the  drawing-room, 
"  Father's  awfully  on  the  spot,  isn't  he  ?  It's 
Norway,  I  expect.  Bucks  him  up." 

"  Norway  is  enough  to  excite  anybody,"  Lucy 
said  — "  even  me." 

"  Oh,  you !  "  Lancelot  was  scornful.  "  Any- 
thing would  excite  you.  Look  at  Mr.  Urquhart." 

Lucy  flickered.  "How  do  you  mean?" 
Lancelot  was  warm  for  his  absent  friend. 

"  Why,  you  used  to  take  a  great  interest  in  all 
his  adventures  —  you  know  you  did." 

This  must  be  faced.  "  Of  course  I  did. 
Well—?" 

"  Well,"  said  Lancelot,  very  acutely,  "  now 
they  seem  rather  ordinary  —  rather  chronic." 
Chronic  was  a  word  of  Crewdson's,  used  as  an 
augmentive.  Lucy  laughed,  but  faintly. 

"  Yes,  I  expect  they  are  chronic.  But  I  think 
Mr.  Urquhart  is  very  nice." 

"  He's  ripping,"  said  Lancelot,  in  a  stare. 


THE  SHIVERING  FIT  225 

James  in  the  drawing-room  that  evening  was 
studiously  himself,  and  Lucy  fought  with  her  rest- 
lessness, and  prevailed  against  it.  He  was  shy, 
and  spun  webs  of  talk  to  conceal  his  preoccupa- 
tions. Lucy  watched  him  guardedly,  but  with  in- 
tense interest.  It  was  when  she  went  upstairs  that 
the  amazing  thing  happened. 

She  stood  by  him,  her  hand  once  more  upon  his 
shoulder.  He  had  his  book  in  his  hand. 

"  I'm  going,"  she  said.  "  You  have  been  very 
sweet  to  me.  I  don't  deserve  it,  you  know." 

He  looked  up  at  her,  quizzing  her  through  the 
detested  glass.  "  You  darling,"  he  said  calmly, 
and  she  thrilled.  Where  had  she  heard  that 
phrase?  At  the  Walkure! 

"You  darling,"  he  said;  "who  could  help 
it?" 

"  Oh,  but — "  she  pouted  now.  "  Oh,  but  you 
can  help  it  often  —  if  you  like." 

"  But,  you  see,  I  don't  like.  I  should  hate 
myself  if  I  thought  that  I  could." 

"  Do  let  me  take  your  glass  away  for  one 
minute." 

'  You  may  do  what  you  please  with  it,  or  me." 

The  glass  in  eclipse,  she  looked  down  at  him, 
considering,  hesitating,  choosing,  poised.  "  Oh, 


226  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

I  was  right.  You  look  much  nicer  without  it. 
Some  day  I'll  tell  you." 

He  took  her  hand  and  kept  it.  "  Some  day 
you  shall  tell  me  a  number  of  things." 

She  did  not  cease  to  look  at  him,  but  he  saw  fear 
in  her  eyes.  "  Some  day,  perhaps,  but  not  yet." 

"No,"  said  he,  "not  yet  —  perhaps." 

"  Will  you  trust  me  ?" 

"  I  always  have." 

She  sighed.  "  Oh,  you  are  good.  I  didn't 
know  how  good."  Then  she  turned  to  go.  "  I 
told  you  I  was  going  —  and  I  am.  Good  night." 

He  put  his  book  down.  She  let  his  eyeglass 
fall.  He  drew  her  to  his  knee,  and  looked  at  her. 

"It's  not  good  night,"  he  said.     "That's  to 


come." 


She  gave  him  a  startled,  wide  look,  and  then 
her  lips,  before  she  fled. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE    HARDANGER 

THAT  enchanted  land  of  sea  and  rock,  of 
mountains  rooted  in  the  water,  and  water 
which  pierces  the  secret  valleys  of  the 
mountains,  worked  its  spell  upon  our  travellers, 
and  freed  them  from  themselves  for  a  while. 
For  awhile  they  were  as  singleminded  as  the  boys, 
content  to  live  and  breathe  that  wine-tinctured  air, 
and  watch  out  those  flawless  days  and  serene  grey 
nights.  London  had  sophisticated  some  of  them 
almost  beyond  redemption :  Francis  Lingen  was 
less  man  than  sensitive  gelatine;  James  was  the 
offspring  of  a  tradition  and  a  looking-glass.  But 
the  zest  and  high  spirits  of  Urquhart  were  catch- 
ing, and  after  a  week  Francis  Lingen  ceased  to 
murmur  to  ladies  in  remote  corners,  and  James  to 
care  whether  his  clothes  were  pressed.  Every- 
body behaved  well:  Urquhart,  who  believed  that 
he  possessed  Lucy's  heart,  James,  who  knew  now 
what  he  possessed,  Vera  Nugent,  who  was  content 
to  sit  and  look  on,  and  Lucy  herself,  who  simply 

227 


228  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

and  honestly  forgot  everything  except  the  beauty 
of  the  world,  and  the  joy  of  physical  exertion. 
She  had  been  wofully  ill  on  the  passage  from 
Newcastle  and  had  been  invisible  from  beginning 
to  end.  But  from  the  moment  of  landing  at 
Bergen  she  had  been  transformed.  She  was  now 
the  sister  of  her  son,  a  wild,  wilful,  impetuous 
creature,  a  nymph  of  the  heath,  irresponsible  and 
self-indulgent,  taking  what  she  could  get  of  com- 
fort and  cherishing,  and  finding  a  boundless  appe- 
tite for  it.  It  was  something,  perhaps,  to  know 
in  her  heart  that  every  man  in  the  party  was  in 
love  with  her;  it  was  much  more  —  for  the  mo- 
ment at  least  —  to  be  without  conscience  in  the 
matter.  She  had  put  her  conscience  to  sleep  for 
once,  drugged  it  with  poppy  and  drowsy  syrups, 
and  led  the  life  of  a  healthy  and  vigorous  animal. 

Urquhart  enjoyed  that;  he  was  content  to  wait 
and  watch.  For  the  time  James  did  not  perceive 
it.  The  beauty  and  freshness  of  this  new  world 
was  upon  him.  Francis  Lingen,  born  to  cling, 
threw  out  tentative  tendrils  to  Margery  Dacre. 

Margery  Dacre  was  a  very  pretty  girl;  she  had 
straw-coloured  hair  and  a  bright  complexion. 
She  wore  green,  especially  in  the  water.  Urqu- 
hart called  her  Undine,  and  she  was  mostly  known 


THE  HARDANGER  229 

as  the  Mermaid.  She  had  very  little  mind,  but 
excellent  manners;  and  was  expensive  without 
seeming  to  spend  anything.  For  instance,  she 
brought  no  maid,  because  she  thought  that  it 
might  have  looked  ostentatious,  and  always  made 
use  of  Lucy's,  who  didn't  really  want  one.  That 
was  how  Margery  Dacre  contrived  to  seem  very 
simple. 

For  the  moment  Urquhart  took  natural  com- 
mand. He  knew  the  country,  he  owned  the 
motor-boat;  he  believed  that  he  owned  Lucy,  and 
he  believed  that  James  was  rather  a  fool.  He 
thought  that  he  had  got  the  better  of  James. 
But  this  could  not  last,  because  James  was  no 
more  of  a  fool  than  he  was  himself,  though  his 
intelligence  worked  in  a  different  way.  Things 
flashed  upon  Urquhart,  who  then  studied  them  in- 
tensely and  missed  nothing.  They  dawned  on 
James,  who  leisurely  absorbed  them,  and  allowed 
them  to  work  out  their  own  development. 

It  was  very  gradually  now  dawning  upon  James 
that  Urquhart  had  assumed  habits  of  guidance 
over  Lucy  and  was  not  aware  of  any  reason  why 
he  should  relinquish  them.  He  believed  that  he 
understood  her  thoroughly;  he  read  her  as  a 
pliant,  gentle  nature,  easily  imposed  upon,  and 


23o  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

really  at  the  mercy  of  any  unscrupulous  man  who 
was  clever  enough  to  see  how  she  should  be 
treated.  He  had  never  thought  that  before.  It 
was  the  result  of  his  cogitations  over  recent  events. 
So  while  he  kept  his  temper  and  native  jealousy 
under  easy  control,  he  watched  comfortably  —  as 
well  he  might  —  and  gained  amusement,  as  he 
could  well  afford  to  do,  from  Urquhart's  marital 
assumptions.  When  he  was  tempted  to  interfere, 
or  to  try  a  fall  with  Urquhart,  he  studiously  re- 
frained. If  Urquhart  said,  as  he  did  sometimes, 
"  I  advise  you  to  rest  for  a  bit,"  James  calmly  em- 
braced the  idea.  If  Urquhart  brought  out  a  cloak 
or  a  wrap  and  without  word  handed  it  to  her, 
James,  watching,  did  not  determine  to  forestall 
him  on  the  next  occasion.  And  Lucy,  as  he  ad- 
mitted, behaved  beautifully,  behaved  perfectly. 
There  were  no  grateful  looks  from  her,  such  as  he 
would  expect  to  see  pass  between  lovers.  Keenly 
as  he  watched  her,  he  saw  no  secret  exchange. 
On  the  other  hand,  her  eyes  frequently  sought  his 
own,  as  if  she  wanted  him  to  understand  that  she 
was  happy,  as  if,  indeed,  she  wanted  him  to  be 
happy  by  such  an  understanding.  This  gave  him 
great  pleasure,  and  touched  him  too.  If  he  had 
been  capable  of  it,  he  would  have  told  her;  but  he 


THE  HARDANGER  231 

was  not.  It  was  part  of  his  nature  to  treat  those 
whom  he  loved  de  haul  en  has.  He  found  that  it 
was  so,  and  hated  himself  for  it.  The  one  thing 
he  really  grudged  Urquhart  was  his  simplicity  and 
freedom  from  ulterior  motive.  Urquhart  was 
certainly  able  to  enjoy  the  moment  for  the  mo- 
ment's worth.  But  James  must  always  be  calcu- 
lating exactly  what  it  was  worth,  and  whether  to 
be  enhanced  by  what  might  follow  it. 

He  was  kinder  to  her  than  he  had  ever  been 
before.  In  fact,  he  was  remarkably  interesting. 
She  told  him  of  it  in  their  solitary  moments  of 
greatest  intimacy.  "  This  is  my  honeymoon,"  she 
said,  "  and  I  never  had  one  before." 

"  Goose,"  said  he,  "  don't  attempt  to  deceive 
me."  But  she  reasserted  it. 

'  It's  true,  James.  You  may  have  loved  me  in 
your  extraordinary  way,  but  I'm  sure  I  didn't  love 
you.  I  was  much  too  frightened  of  you." 

"  Well,"  he  laughed,  "  I  don't  discover  any 
terrors  now."  She  wouldn't  say  that  there  were 
none.  So  far  as  she  dared  she  was  honest. 

"  We  aren't  on  an  exact  equality.  We  never 
shall  be.  But  we  are  much  nearer.  Own  it." 

He  held  her  closely  and  kissed  her.  "  You  are 
a  little  darling,  if  that's  what  you  mean." 


232  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

"Oh,  but  it  isn't;  it  isn't  at  all  what  I  mean. 
Why,  you  wouldn't  call  me  *  little  '  if  you  didn't 
know  you  were  superior.  Because  I'm  rather  tall 
for  a  woman." 

He  knew  that  she  was  right,  and  respected  her 
for  the  discernment.  "  My  love,"  he  said,  "  I'm 
a  self-centred,  arrogant  beast,  and  I  don't  like  to 
think  about  it.  But  you'll  make  something  of  me 
if  you  think  it  worth  while.  But  listen  to  me, 
Lucy.  I'm  going  to  talk  to  you  seriously." 
Then  he  whispered  in  her  ear:  "Some  day  you 
must  talk  to  me."  He  could  feel  her  heart  beat, 
he  could  feel  her  shiver  as  she  clung. 

"Yes,"  she  said  very  low;  "yes,  I  promise  — 
but  not  now." 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  not  now.  I  want  to  be  happy 
as  long  as  I  can."  She  started  away,  and  he  felt 
her  look  at  him  in  the  dark. 

"  You'll  be  happier  when  I've  told  you,"  she 
said. 

"  Why  do  you  say  that?  " 

"  Because  I  shall  be  happier  myself  then,"  she 
said;  and  James  hoped  that  she  was  right  about 
him.  One  thing  amazed  him  to  discover  —  how 
women  imputed  their  own  virtues  to  the  men  they 
loved.  It  struck  him  a  mortal  blow  to  realise  that 


THE  HARDANGER  -233 

his  evident  happiness  would  give  Lucy  joy,  where- 
as hers  would  by  no  means  necessarily  add  to  his. 
"  What  does  give  me  happiness,  then?  "  he  asked 
himself;  u  what  could  conceivably  increase  my  zest 
for  life?  Evidence  of  power,  exercise  of  faculty: 
so  far  as  I  know,  nothing  else  whatever.  A 
parlous  state  of  affairs.  But  it  is  the  difference, 
I  presume,  between  a  giving  creature  and  a  getting 
one  which  explains  all.  Is  a  man,  then,  never  to 
give,  and  be  happy?  Has  he  ever  tried?  Is  a 
woman  not  to  get?  Has  she  ever  had  a  chance 
of  it?"  He  puzzled  over  these  things  in  his 
prosaic,  methodical  way.  One  thing  was  clear  to 
everybody  there  but  Urquhart  in  his  present 
fatuity :  Lucy  was  thriving.  She  had  colour,  light 
in  her  eyes,  a  bloom  upon  her,  a  dewiness,  an 
auroral  air.  She  sunned  herself  like  a  bird  in  the 
dust;  she  bathed  her  body,  and  tired  herself  with 
long  mountain  and  woodland  walks.  When  she 
was  alone  with  her  husband  she  grew  as  sentimen- 
tal as  a  housemaid  and  as  little  heedful  of  the 
absurd.  She  grew  young  and  amazingly  pretty, 
the  sister  of  her  son.  It  would  be  untrue  to  say 
that,  being  in  clover,  she  was  unaware  of  it.  For 
a  woman  of  one-and-thirty  to  have  her  husband 
for  a  lover,  and  her  lover  for  a  foil,  is  a  gift  of 


234  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

the  gods.  So  she  took  it  —  with  the  sun  and 
green  water,  and  wine-bright  air.  Let  the  moral- 
ists battle  it  out  with  the  sophists:  it  did  her  a 
world  of  good. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE   MOON-SPELL 

MACARTNEY  fell  easily  into  habits,  and 
was  slow  to  renounce  them.  Having 
got  into  the  way  of  making  love  to  his 
wife,  he  by  no  means  abandoned  it;  at  the  same 
time,  and  in  as  easy  a  fashion,  it  came  to  be  a  mat- 
ter of  routine  with  him  to  play  piquet  with  Vera 
Nugent  after  dinner.  It  was  she  who  had  pro- 
posed it,  despairing  of  a  quartette,  or  even  of  a 
trio,  for  the  Bridge  which  was  a  dram  to  her. 
Here  also  James  would  have  been  only  too  happy; 
but  nobody  else  would  touch  it.  Lucy  never 
played  cards;  Urquhart,  having  better  things  to 
do,  said  that  he  never  did.  Margery  Dacre  and 
Lingen  preferred  retirement  and  their  own  com- 
pany. Lingen,  indeed,  was  exhibiting  his  heart 
to  the  pale-haired  girl  as  if  it  was  a  specimen- 
piece.  "  I  am  really  a  very  simple  person,"  he 
told  her,  "  one  of  those  who,  trusting  once,  trust 
for  ever.  I  don't  expect  to  be  understood,  I  have 
no  right  to  ask  for  sympathy.  That  would  be  too 

235 


236  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

much  to  look  for  in  a  jostling,  market-day  world 
like  ours.  But  I  cherish  one  or  two  very  fragrant 
memories  of  kindnesses  done.  I  open,  at  need,  a 
drawer;  and,  like  the  scent  of  dry  rose-leaves,  or 
lavender,  a  sweet  hint  steals  out  that  there  are 
good  women  in  the  world,  that  life  is  not  made  up 
of  receipted  bills.  Don't  you  understand  the 
value  of  such  treasures?  I  am  sure  that  you  do. 
You  always  seem  to  me  so  comprehending  in  your 
outlook."  Margery  said  that  she  hoped  she  was. 

It  was  Lucy's  business  immediately  after  dinner 
to  see  that  Lancelot  was  decently  abed.  The  lad 
took  the  last  ounce  out  of  himself  before  that  time 
came,  and  was  to  be  brought  by  main  force  to  the 
bath,  crimson  to  the  roots  of  his  hair  and  dripping 
with  sweat.  Protesting  to  the  uttermost,  still 
panting  with  his  final  burst  in  the  open,  she  saw  to 
it  that  he  was  quiet  before  she  could  be  so  herself. 
Then  she  was  free,  and  Urquhart  found  —  or 
looked  for  —  his  chance.  The  woods  called  her, 
the  wondrous  silver-calm  of  the  northern  night. 
She  longed  to  go ;  but  now  she  dreaded  Urquhart, 
and  dared  not  trust  herself.  It  had  come  to  this, 
that,  possessed  as  she  was,  and  happy  in  posses- 
sion, he  and  all  that  he  stood  for  could  blot  the 


THE  MOON-SPELL  237 

whole  fair  scene  up  in  cold  fog.  That  was  how 
she  looked  at  it  in  the  first  blush  of  her  new  life. 

He  didn't  understand  that;  but  he  saw  that  she 
was  nervous,  and  set  himself  to  reassure  her. 
He  assumed  his  dryest  tone,  his  most  negligent 
manner.  When  she  came  downstairs  from  Lance- 
lot, and  after  watching  the  card-players,  fingering 
a  book  or  magazine,  drifted  to  the  open  window 
and  stood  or  leaned  there,  absorbing  the  glory  of 
the  night  —  Urquhart  left  her,  and  pulled  at  his 
pipe.  When  she  spoke  to  the  room  at  large  — 
"  Oh,  you  stuffy  people,  will  you  never  under- 
stand that  all  the  world  is  just  out  here?  "  he  was 
the  first  to  laugh  at  her,  though  he  would  have 
walked  her  off  into  that  world  of  magic  and 
dream,  straight  from  the  window  where  she  stood. 
He  was  a  wild  idealist  himself,  and  was  sure  of 
her.  But  he  must  wait  her  good  time. 

Often,  therefore,  she  drifted  out  by  herself,  and 
he  suffered  damnably.  But  she  never  went  far  — 
he  comforted  himself  with  that  assurance.  "  She 
has  the  homing  instinct.  She  won't  go  without 
me ;  and  she  knows  that  I  can't  come  —  but  oh, 
to  be  kissing  her  under  those  birches  by  the  water's 
edge!" 

He  was  not  the  only  one  who  was  aware  that  she 


238  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

had  flitted.  Macartney  was  always  intensely 
aware  of  it,  and  being  by  this  time  exceedingly 
fond,  it  tended  to  spoil  his  play.  So  long  as  Urqu- 
hart  left  her  alone  he  was  able  to  endure  it. 

Then  came  an  evening  when,  tending  to  the  open 
door,  she  found  Urquhart  there  before  her.  He 
had  behaved  so  admirably  that  her  fears  were 
asleep.  He  acted  with  the  utmost  caution,  saying 
just  enough,  with  just  enough  carelessness  of  tone, 
to  keep  her  unsuspicious.  The  boreal  lights  were 
flashing  and  quivering  in  the  sky :  very  soon  he  saw 
her  absorbed  in  the  wonder  and  beauty  of  them. 
"  A  night,"  she  said,  "  when  anything  might  hap- 
pen!" 

"  Yes,  it  looks  like  that,"  he  agreed.  "  But 
that  is  not  what  enraptures  you." 

"What  do  you  think  enraptures  me?"  she 
wished  to  know. 

"  The  certainty,"  he  replied,  "  that  nothing 
will." 

She  waited  a  while,  then  said,  "  Yes,  you  are 
right.  I  don't  want  anything  else  to  happen." 

"  You  have  everything  you  want,  here  in  the 
house.  Safe  to  hand !  Your  Lancelot  in  bed, 
your  James  at  cards,  and  myself  at  the  window. 
Wonderful  1  And  you  are  contented?" 


THE  MOON-SPELL  239 

"  Yes,  yes.  I  ask  so  little,  you  see.  But  you 
despise  me  for  it." 

"  God  forbid.  I  promised  you  that  you 
shouldn't  repent  this  trip.  And  you  don't,  I 
hope?" 

Her  eyes  were  wide  open  and  serious.  "  No, 
indeed.  I  never  expected  to  be  so  happy  as  this. 
It  never  happened  to  me  before."  She  had  no 
compunctions  at  all  —  but  he  was  in  the  fatuous 
stage,  drugged  by  his  own  imaginings. 

"  That's  good.  Shall  we  go  down  to  the 
water?" 

"  I  think  we  might,"  she  said,  not  daring  to  look 
back  into  the  room,  lest  he  should  think  that  she 
feared  him. 

They  strolled  leisurely  through  the  wood,  she 
in  a  soft  rapture  of  delight  at  the  still  grey  beauty 
of  the  night;  Urquhart  in  a  state  of  mind  border- 
ing upon  frenzy.  He  gripped  himself  by  both 
hands  to  make  sure  of  the  mastery.  What  gave 
him  conviction  was  his  constant  sense  of  Lucy's 
innocency.  This  beautiful  woman  had  the  heart 
of  a  child  and  the  patience  of  the  mother  of  a  god. 
To  shock  the  one  or  gibe  at  the  other  were  a  blas- 
phemy he  simply  couldn't  contemplate.  What 
then  was  to  be  the  end  of  it?  He  didn't  know; 


24o  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

he  didn't  care.  She  loved  him,  he  believed;  she 
had  kissed  him,  therefore  she  must  love  him. 
Such  women  don't  give  their  lips  without  their 
hearts.  But  then  she  had  been  scared,  and  had 
cried  off?  Well,  that,  too,  he  seemed  to  under- 
stand. That  was  where  her  sense  of  law  came  in. 
He  could  not  but  remember  that  it  would  have 
come  in  before,  had  she  known  who  her  lover  was. 
As  things  fell  out,  she  slipped  into  love  without 
knowing  it.  The  moment  she  had  known  it,  she 
withdrew  to  the  shadow  of  her  hearth.  That  was 
his  Lucy  all  over.  His  Lucy?  Yes,  for  that 
wasn't  the  Solicitor's  Lucy  —  if,  indeed,  the  solic- 
itor had  a  Lucy.  But  had  he?  A  little  weakness 
of  Urquhart's  was  to  pride  himself  on  being  a 
man  of  whims,  and  to  suppose  such  twists  of  the 
mind  his  unique  possession.  All  indeed  that  he 
had  of  unique  was  this,  that  he  invariably  yielded 
to  his  whims;  whereas  other  people  did  not. 

However,  he  set  a  watch  upon  himself  on  this 
night  of  witchery,  and  succeeded  perfectly.  They 
talked  leisurely  and  quietly  —  of  anything  or  noth- 
ing; the  desultory,  fragmentary  interjections  of 
comment  which  pass  easily  between  intimates. 
Lucy's  share  was  replete  with  soft  wonderings  at 


THE  MOON-SPELL  241 

the  beauty  of  the  world.  Neither  of  them 
answered  the  other. 

Under  the  birch-trees  it  was  light,  but  very 
damp.  He  wouldn't  allow  her  to  stop  there,  but 
bade  her  higher  up  the  hillside.  There  were  pines 
there  which  were  always  dry.  "  Wait  you  there," 
he  said;  "  I'm  going  back  to  get  you  a  wrap." 
She  would  have  stopped  him,  but  he  had  gone. 

Urquhart,  walking  up  sharply  to  the  house,  was 
not  at  all  prepared  for  Macartney  walking  as 
sharply  down  from  it.  In  fact,  he  was  very  much 
put  out,  and  the  more  so  because  from  the  first 
James  took  the  upper  hand. 

"  Hulloa,"  said  the  lord  of  the  eyeglass. 

"  Hulloa,  yourself,"  said  Urquhart,  and 
stopped,  which  he  need  not  have  done,  seeing  that 
Macartney  with  complete  nonchalance  continued 
his  walk. 

"  Seen  my  wife  anywhere  ?  "  came  from  over  his 
shoulder.  Urquhart  turned  on  his  heels.  "  Yes," 
he  said,  and  walked  on. 

There  was  an  end  of  one,  two  and  three  —  as 
the  rhyme  goes.  Urquhart  was  hot  with  rage. 
That  bland,  blundering  fool,  that  glasshouse,  that 
damned  supercilious  ass:  all  this  and  more  he  cried 


242  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

upon  James.  He  scorned  him  for  his  jealousy; 
he  cursed  him  for  it;  he  vowed  that  he  would  carry 
her  off  before  his  very  eyes.  "  Let  her  give  the 
word,  lift  an  eyebrow,  and  I  take  her  across  the 
world."  And  the  lad  too,  bless  him.  What  did 
the  quill-driver  want  of  them  but  credit?  Damn 
him,  he  hung  them  up  in  his  house,  as  tradesmen 
use  the  royal  arms.  He  baited  for  his  deans  and 
chapters  with  them.  He  walked  far  into  the  night 
in  a  passion  of  anger.  It  never  once  occurred  to 
him  that  James  was  a  rival.  And  there  he  was 
right. 

He  thought  that  Urquhart  had  certainly 
been  with  Lucy;  he  knew  that  he  was  in  love  with 
her;  but  oddly  enough  that  stimulated  instead  of 
quelled  him.  It  enhanced  her.  It  made  her  love 
worth  keeping.  He  had  a  great  respect,  in  his 
heart  of  hearts,  for  Urquhart's  validity  in  a  world 
of  action  which  certainly  comprehended  the  taking 
and  keeping  of  hearts.  Now  he  came  to  think  of 
it,  he  must  confess  that  he  had  never  loved  Lucy 
as  he  did  now  until  he  had  observed  that  so  re- 
doubtable a  champion  was  in  the  lists  against  him. 
Odd  thing  I  He  had  been  jealous  of  Francis  Lin- 
gen,  as  he  now  was  of  Urquhart;  but  it  was  the 
latter  jealousy  which  had  made  him  desire  Lucy. 


THE  MOON-SPELL  243 

The  former  had  simply  disgusted  him,  the  latter 
had  spurred  him  to  rivalry  —  and  now  to  main 
desire.  James  was  no  philosopher;  he  had  an  idle 
mind  except  in  the  conduct  of  his  business.  He 
could  not  attempt,  then,  to  explain  his  state  of 
mind  —  but  he  was  very  much  interested.  Soon 
he  saw  her  in  the  dusk  under  the  pines:  a  slim 
white  shape,  standing  with  one  hand  upon  the 
trunk  of  a  tree.  Her  back  was  towards  him;  she 
did  not  turn. 

She  supposed  that  it  was  Urquhart  come  back, 
and  was  careful  not  to  seem  waiting  for  him. 
"  How  quick  you  have  been !  "  she  said  lightly,  and 
stood  where  she  was.  No  answer  was  returned. 
Then  came  a  shock  indeed,  and  her  head  seemed 
to  flood  with  fear.  Two  hands  from  behind  her 
covered  her  eyes;  her  head  was  drawn  gently  back, 
and  she  was  kissed  ardently  on  the  lips.  She  strug- 
gled wildly;  she  broke  away.  "Oh!  "  she  said, 
half  sobbing.  "  Oh,  how  cruel  you  are  —  how 
cruel!  How  could  you  dare  to  do  it?"  And 
then,  free  of  the  hands,  she  turned  upon  Urquhart 
—  and  saw  James.  "  Oh,  my  love !  "  she  said, 
and  ran  to  him  and  broke  into  tears. 

James  had  secured  his  eyeglass,  but  now  let  it 
drop.  He  allowed  her  to  cry  her  fill,  and  then 


244  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

made  the  best  of  a  rather  bad  business.  "  If  every 
man  who  kissed  his  wife,"  said  he,  "  was  answered 
like  that,  lips  would  go  dry." 

She  said  through  her  tears,  "  You  see,  I  thought 
you  were  Mr.  Urquhart  with  my  wrap." 

"  Oh,  the  dickens  you  did,"  said  James.  "  And 
is  that  how  Mr.  Urquhart  usually  brings  you  a 
wrap?  " 

She  clung  to  him.  "  Well,  no.  If  he  did,  I 
suppose  I  shouldn't  have  been  so  angry  —  by  this 
time." 

"  That's  a  very  good  answer,"  James  allowed. 
"  I'll  only  make  one  comment  upon  it.  You  cried 
out  upon  the  cruelty  of  the  attack.  Now  if  it  had 
been  —  assume  it  for  the  moment  —  our  —  well, 
friend,  let  us  say,  why  would  it  have  been  cruel  of 
him?  Shameful,  flagrant,  audacious,  impudent, 
insolent,  all  that  I  can  understand.  But  cruel, 
Lucy?" 

Lucy's  cheek  was  upon  his  shoulder,  and  she  let 
it  stay  there,  even  while  she  answered.  The 
moment  was  serious.  She  must  tell  him  as  much 
as  she  dared.  Certain  things  seemed  out  of  the 
question;  but  something  she  must  tell  him. 

"  You  see,  James,"  she  said,  "  I  think  Mr.  Ur- 
quhart is  fond  of  me  —  in  fact,  I'm  sure  of  it  — " 


THE  MOON-SPELL  245 

"Has  he  told  you  so?" 

"  Not  in  so  many  words  —  but  — " 

"  But  in  so  many  other  words,  eh?  Well,  pur- 
sue." 

"  And  I  told  him  that  I  couldn't  possibly  join  the 
party  —  on  that  account." 

"  Did  you  tell  him  it  was  on  that  account?  " 

"  No,"  said  Lucy,  "  I  didn't;  but  he  understood 
that.  I  know  he  understood  it,  because  he  im- 
mediately said  that  if  I  would  come  I  shouldn't 
repent  it.  And  I  haven't.  He  has  never  made 
me  feel  uncomfortable.  But  just  now  —  when  I 
was  expecting  him  —  oh,  it  seemed  to  me  quite 
horrible  —  and  I  was  furious  with  him." 

"  You  were  indeed.  It  didn't  occur  to  you  that 
it  might  have  been  —  well,  somebody  with  more 
right." 

Her  arm  tightened,  but  she  said  nothing.  The 
unconscious  James  went  on.  "  I  was  wrong.  A 
man  has  no  right  to  kiss  a  woman  unawares  —  in 
the  dark.  Even  if  it's  his  wife.  She'll  always 
want  to  know  who  it  was,  and  she's  bound  to  find 
out.  And  he'll  get  no  thanks  for  it,  either." 
Then  it  became  necessary  for  Lucy  to  thank  him. 

"  Mind  you,  my  dear,"  he  told  her.  "  I  have 
no  quarrel  with  Jimmy  Urquhart  up  to  now.  You 


246  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

say  he's  in  love  with  you,  and  I  think  that  he  is. 
I've  thought  so  for  some  time,  and  I  confess  that 
I  didn't  relish  the  idea  that  he  should  be  out  here 
with  us.  But  since  we  are  in  for  confessions  I'll 
make  one  more.  If  he  hadn't  been  in  love  with 
you  I  don't  believe  that  I  should  be  —  as  I  am 


now." 


Lucy  laughed  —  the  laugh  of  a  woman  rich. 
"  Then  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  him,"  she  said. 

But  Urquhart  was  harder  to  convince  than 
James. 


CHAPTER  XX 

FAIR  WARNING 

VERA  NUGENT,  a  brisk  woman  of  the 
world,  with  a  fondness  for  vivid  clothing 
and  a  Spanish  air  which  went  oddly  with 
it,  took  the  trouble  one  fine  day  to  tackle  her 
brother.     "  Look  here,  Jimmy,"  she  said  as  they 
breasted  a  mountain  pass,  "  are  you  quite  sure 
what  you  are  up  to  with  these  people?  " 

Urquhart's  eyes  took  a  chill  tinge  —  a  hard  and 
pebbly  stare.  "  I  don't  know  what  you  mean," 
he  said. 

"  Men  always  say  that,  especially  when  they 
know  very  well.  Of  course  I  mean  the  Macart- 
neys. You  didn't  suppose  I  was  thinking  of  the 
Poplolly?"  The  Poplolly,  I  regret  to  say,  was 
Francis  Lingen,  whom  Vera  abhorred.  The  term 
was  opprobrious,  and  inexact. 

But  Urquhart  shrouded  himself  in  ice.  "  Per- 
haps you  might  explain  yourself,"  he  said. 

Vera  was  not  at  all  sure  that  she  would.  '  You 
make  it  almost  impossible,  you  know." 

247 


248  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

They  were  all  out  in  a  party,  and  were  to  meet 
the  luncheon  and  the  boys,  who  had  gone  round  in 
the  boat.  As  parties  will  have  it,  they  had  soon 
scattered.  Lingen  had  taken  Margery  Dacre  to 
himself,  Lucy  was  with  her  husband.  Urquhart, 
now  he  came  to  think  of  it,  began  to  understand 
that  the  sceptre  was  out  of  his  hands.  The  pass, 
worn  out  of  the  shelving  rock  by  centuries  of  foot- 
work, wound  itself  about  the  breasting  cliffs  like  a 
scarf;  below  them  lay  the  silver  fiord,  and  upon 
that,  a  mere  speck,  they  could  see  the  motor-boat, 
with  a  wake  widening  out  behind  her  like  parallel 
lines  of  railway. 

Urquhart  saw  in  his  mind  that  he  would  be  a 
fool  to  quarrel  with  Vera.  She  was  not  on  his 
side,  he  could  feel;  but  he  didn't  despair  of  her. 
One  way  of  putting  her  off  him  forever  was  to 
allow  her  to  think  him  a  fool.  That  he  could  not 
afford. 

"  Don't  turn  against  me  for  a  mannerism,  my 
dear,"  he  said. 

"  I  turn  against  you,  if  at  all,  for  a  lack  of  man- 
nerism," said  Vera  briskly.  "  It's  too  bad  of  you. 
Here  I  am  as  so  much  ballast  for  your  party,  and 
when  I  begin  to  make  myself  useful,  you  pretend 
I'm  not  there.  But  I  am  there,  you  know." 


FAIR  WARNING  249 

"  I  was  cross,"  he  said,  "  because  I'm  rather 
worried,  and  I  thought  you  were  going  to  worry 
me  more." 

"  Well,  maybe  that  I  am," —  she  admitted 
that.  "  But  I  don't  like  to  see  a  sharp-faced  man 
make  a  donkey  of  himself.  The  credit  of  the 
family  is  at  stake." 

He  laughed.  "  I  wouldn't  be  the  first  of  us  — 
and  this  wouldn't  be  the  first  time.  There's 
whimsy  in  the  blood.  Well  —  out  with  it.  Let 
me  know  the  worst." 

Vera  stopped.  "  I  intend  to  do  it  sitting. 
We've  heaps  of  time.  None  of  the  others  want 


us." 


Urquhart  hit  the  rock  with  his  staff.  "  That's 
the  point,  my  child.  Do  they  —  or  don't  they?  " 

"  You  believe,"  Vera  said,  "  that  Lucy  is  in  love 
with  you." 

Urquhart  replied,  "  I  know  that  she  was." 

"  There  you  have  the  pull  over  me,"  she 
answered.  "  I  haven't  either  your  confidence  or 
hers.  All  I  can  tell  you  is  that  now  she  isn't." 
Urquhart  was  all  attention.  "  Do  you  mean,  she 
has  told  you  anything?  " 

"  Good  Heavens,"  Vera  scoffed,  "  what  do  you 
take  me  for  ?  Do  you  think  I  don't  know  by  the 


250  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

looks  of  her?  If  you  weren't  infatuated  you'd 
know  better  than  I  do." 

"  My  dear  girl,"  Urquhart  said,  with  a  straight 
look  at  her,  "  the  fact  is,  I  am  infatuated." 

"  I'm  sorry  for  you.  You've  made  a  mess  of 
it.  But  I  must  say  that  I'm  not  at  all  sorry  for 
her.  Don't  you  suppose  that  she  is  the  sort  to 
find  the  world  well  lost  for  your  beaux  yeux.  Far 
from  that.  She'd  wilt  like  a  rose  in  a  window- 
box." 

"  I'd  take  her  into  fairy-land,"  said  Urquhart. 
"  She  should  walk  in  the  dawn.  She  wouldn't  feel 
her  feet." 

"  She  would  if  they  were  damp,"  said  Vera,  who 
could  be  as  direct  as  you  please.  "  If  you  think 
she's  a  wood  nymph  in  a  cage,  you're  very  much 
mistaken.  She's  very  domestic." 

"  I  know,"  said  the  infatuate,  "  that  I  touched 
her."  Vera  tossed  her  head. 

"  I'll  be  bound  you  did.  You  aren't  the  first 
man  to  light  a  fire.  That's  what  you  did.  You 
lit  a  fire  for  Macartney  to  warm  his  hand  at. 
She's  awfully  in  love  with  him." 

Urquhart  grew  red.  "  That's  not  probable," 
he  said. 

Vera  said,  "  It's  certain.     Perhaps  you'll  take 


FAIR  WARNING  251 

the  trouble  to  satisfy  yourself  before  you  take 
tickets  for  fairy-land.  It's  an  expensive  journey, 
I  believe.  Had  you  thought  what  you  would  be 
doing  about  Lancelot  —  a  very  nice  boy?  " 

"  No  details  had  been  arranged,"  said  Urqu- 
hart,  in  his  very  annoying  way. 

"  Not  even  that  of  the  lady's  inclinations,  it  ap- 
pears. Well,  I've  warned  you.  I've  done  it  with 
the  best  intentions.  I  suppose  even  you  won't 
deny  that  I'm  single-minded?  I'm  not  on  the  side 
of  your  solicitor."  That  made  Urquhart  very 
angry. 

"  I'm  much  obliged  to  you,  my  dear.  We'll 
leave  my  solicitor  out  of  account  for  the  moment." 
But  that  nettled  Vera,  who  flamed. 

u  Upon  my  word,  Jimmy,  you  are  too  sublime. 
You  can't  dispose  of  people  quite  like  that.  How 
are  you  to  leave  him  out  of  account,  when  you 
brought  his  wife  into  it?  If  you  ever  supposed 
that  Macartney  was  nothing  but  a  solicitor,  you 
were  never  more  mistaken  in  your  life  —  except 
when  you  thought  that  Lucy  was  a  possible  law- 
breaker." 

At  the  moment,  and  from  where  they  stood,  the 
sea-scape  and  the  coast-road  stood  revealed  before 
and  behind  them  for  many  a  league.  In  front  it 


252  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

descended  by  sharp  spirals  to  a  river-bed.  Vera 
Nugent  standing  there,  her  chin  upon  her  hands, 
her  hands  upon  her  staff,  could  see  straight  below 
her  feet  two  absorbed  couples,  as  it  were  on  dif- 
ferent grades  of  the  scene.  In  the  first  the  fair 
Margery  Dacre  leaned  against  a  rock  while  Lin- 
gen,  on  his  knees,  tied  her  shoestring;  at  a  lower 
level  yet  Macartney,  having  handed  his  Lucy  over 
a  torrent,  stooped  his  head  to  receive  his  tribute. 
Vera,  who  had  a  grain  of  pity  in  her,  hoped  that 
Urquhart  had  been  spared;  but  whether  he  was  or 
not  she  never  knew.  No  signs  of  disturbance  were 
upon  him  at  the  ensuing  picnic,  unless  his  treatment 
of  Macartney  —  with  a  kind  of  humorous  sav- 
agery —  betrayed  him.  They  talked  of  the 
Folgefond,  that  mighty  snow-field  beyond  the  fiord 
which  the  three  men  intended  to  traverse  in  a  day 
or  two's  time. 

"  Brace  yourself,  my  friend,"  Urquhart  said. 
"  Hearts  have  been  broken  on  that  ground  before 


now." 


James  said  that  he  had  made  his  peace  with  God 
—  but  Lucy  looked  full-eyed  and  serious. 

"  I  never  know  when  you  are  laughing  at  us," 
she  said  to  Urquhart. 


FAIR  WARNING  253 

"  Be  sure  that  I  have  never  laughed  at  you  in 
my  life,"  he  said  across  the  table-cloth. 

"  He  laughs  at  me,"  said  James  behind  his  eye- 
glass; "  but  I  defy  him.  The  man  who  can  laugh 
at  himself  is  the  man  I  envy.  Now  I  never  could 
do  that." 

"  You've  hit  me  in  a  vital  spot,"  Urquhart  said. 
"  That's  my  little  weakness ;  and  that's  why  I've 
never  succeeded  in  anything  —  even  in  breaking 
my  neck." 

Lancelot  nudged  his  friend  Patrick.  "  Do  you 
twig  that?" 

Patrick  blinked,  having  his  mouth  too  full  to 
nod  conveniently. 

"  Can't  drive  a  motor,  I  suppose !  Can't  fly  — 
I  don't  think." 

"  As  to  breaking  your  neck,"  said  James, 
"  there's  still  a  chance  for  you." 

"  I  shall  make  a  mess  of  it,"  Urquhart  retorted. 

"  Is  this  going  to  be  a  neck-breaking  expedi- 
tion? "  That  was  from  Lingen,  who  now  had  an 
object  in  life. 

"  I  never  said  so,"  Urquhart  told  him.  "  I 
said  heart-breaking  > —  a  far  simpler  affair." 

"  What  is  going  to  break  your  heart  in  it, 


254  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

please  ?  "  Lucy  asked  him.  She  saw  that  there  lay 
something  behind  his  rattle. 

"  Well,"  said  Urquhart,  brazening  it  out,  "  it 
would  break  mine  to  get  over  the  snow-field  — 
some  eight  miles  of  it,  there  are  —  and  to  find 
that  I  couldn't  get  down.  That  might  easily  hap- 
pen." 

"  And  what  would  you  do  ?  " 

James  fixed  her  with  his  eyeglass.  "  That's 
where  the  neck-breaking  might  intervene,"  he  said. 
"  Jimmy  would  rather  risk  his  neck  any  day." 

"Than  his  heart  I" 

"Heart!"  said  Vera.  "No  such  thing. 
Quite  another  organ.  It's  a  case  of  dinner. 
He'd  risk  his  neck  for  a  dinner,  and  so  would  any 
man." 

"  I  believe  you  are  right,"  said  James. 

Lucy  with  very  bright  eyes  looked  from  one  to 
the  other  of  her  lovers.  Each  wore  a  mask.  She 
determined  to  ask  James  to  give  up  the  Folgefond, 
discerning  trouble  in  the  air. 

They  went  home  by  water,  and  Lancelot  added 
his  unconscious  testimony.  He  was  between  Ur- 
quhart's  knees,  his  hand  upon  the  tiller,  his  mood 
confidential. 


FAIR  WARNING  255 

"  I  say  — "  he  began,  and  Urquhart  encouraged 
him  to  say  on. 

— "  It's  slightly  important,  but  I  suppose  I 
couldn't  do  the  Folgefond  by  any  chance?  " 

"  You  are  saying  a  good  deal,"  said  Urquhart. 
"  I'll  put  it  like  this,  that  by  some  chance  you 
might,  but  by  no  chance  in  the  world  could  Pat- 
rick." 

"  Hoo !  "  said  Lancelot,  "  and  why  not,  pray?  " 

"  His  mother  would  put  her  foot  on  it. 
Splosh  I  it  would  go  like  a  cockroach." 

"  I  know,"  said  dreamy  Lancelot.  "  That's 
what  would  happen  to  me,  I  expect."  Then  he 
added,  "  That's  what  will  happen  to  my  father." 

"  Good  cockroach,"  said  Urquhart,  looking 
ahead  of  him.  "  You  think  she  won't  want  him 
to  go." 

Lancelot  snorted.  "  Won't  want  him !  Why, 
she  doesn't  already.  And  he'll  do  what  she 
wants,  I'll  bet  you." 

"  Does  he  always?  " 

"  He  always  does  now.     It's  the  air,  I  fancy." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE   DEPARTURE 

BUT  pout  as  she  might,  she  could  not  prevail 
with  James,  whose  vanity  had  been 
scratched. 

"  My  dear  girl,  I'd  sooner  perish,"  he  said. 
"  Give  up  a  jolly  walk  because  Jimmy  Urquhart 
talks  about  my  heart  and  his  own  neck  —  prepos- 
terous! Besides,  there's  nothing  in  it." 

"  But,  James,"  she  said,  "  if  I  ask  you  — " 

He  kissed  the  back  of  her  neck.  She  was  be- 
fore the  glass,  busy  with  her  hair.  "  You  don't 
ask  me.  You  wouldn't  ask  me.  No  woman 
wants  to  make  a  fool  of  a  man.  If  she  does,  she's 
a  vampire." 

"  Mr.  Urquhart  is  very  impulsive,"  she  dared 
to  say. 

"  I've  known  that  for  a  long  time,"  said  James. 
"  Longer  than  you  have,  I  fancy.  But  it  takes 
more  than  impulse  to  break  another  man's  neck. 
Besides,  I  really  have  no  reason  to  suppose  that  he 
wants  to  break  my  neck.  Why  should  he  ?  " 

256 


THE  DEPARTURE  257 

Here  they  were  up  against  the  wall  again.  If 
there  were  reasons,  he  could  not  know  them. 
There  was  no  getting  over  it  yet.  They  were  to 
start  betimes  in  the  morning,  and  sleep  that  night 
at  Brattebo,  which  is  the  hithermost  spur  of  the 
chain.  Dinner  and  beds  had  been  ordered  at 
Odde,  beyond  the  snow-field. 

Dinner  was  a  gay  affair.  They  toasted  the 
now  declared  lovers.  True  to  his  cornering  in- 
stincts, Lingen  had  told  Lucy  all  about  it  in  the 
afternoon.  '  Your  sympathy  means  so  much  to 
me  —  and  Margery,  whose  mind  is  exquisitely 
sensitive,  is  only  waiting  your  nod  to  be  at  your 
feet,  with  me." 

"  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  see  either  of  you 
there,"  Lucy  said.  "  I'm  very  fond  of  her  and 
I  shouldn't  take  it  at  all  kindly  if  she  demeaned 
herself.  When  do  you  think  of  marrying?  " 

He  looked  at  her  appealingly.  "  I  must  have 
time,"  he  said;  "  time  to  build  the  nest." 

"  A  flat,  I  suppose,"  she  said,  declining  such 
poetical  flights. 

"A  flat!"  said  Francis  Lingen.  "Really,  it 
hadn't  occurred  to  me." 

From  Lucy  the  news  went  abroad,  and  so  the 
dinner  was  gay.  Urquhart  confined  himself  to 


258  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

the  two  boys,  and  told  them  about  the  Folgefond 
—  of  its  unknown  depth,  of  the  crevasses,  of  the 
glacier  on  its  western  edge,  of  certain  white 
snakes,  bred  by  the  snow,  which  might  be  found 
there.  Their  bite  was  death,  he  said. 

"  Frost-bite,"  said  Patrick  Nugent,  who  knew 
his  uncle's  way;  but  Lancelot  favoured  his  mother. 

"  Hoo!  "  he  said.  "  I  expect  that  you'd  give 
him  what  for.  One  blow  of  your  sword  and  his 
head  would  lie  at  your  feet." 

"  That's  nasty,  too,"  said  Urquhart.  "  They 
have  white  blood,  I  believe."  Lancelot  blinked. 

"  Beastly,"  he  said.  "  Did  Mamma  hear  you? 
You'd  better  not  tell  her.  She  hates  whiteness. 
Secretly  —  so  do  I,  rather." 

It  was  afterwards,  when  the  boys  had  gone  to 
bed,  that  a  seriousness  fell  upon  those  of  them 
who  were  given  to  seriousness.  James  and  Vera 
Nugent  settled  down  squarely  to  piquet.  Francis 
Lingen  murmured  to  his  affianced  bride. 

"  I  don't  disguise  from  myself  —  and  from  you 
I  can  have  no  secrets  —  that  there  is  danger  in  the 
walk.  The  snow  is  very  treacherous  at  this 
season.  We  take  ropes,  of  course.  Urquhart  is 
said  to  know  the  place ;  but  Urquhart  is  — " 


THE  DEPARTURE  259 

"  He's  very  fascinating,"  said  Margery  Dacre, 
and  Francis  lifted  his  eyebrows. 

"You  find  that?  Then  I  am  distressed.  I 
would  share  everything  with  you  if  I  could.  To 
me,  I  don't  know  why,  there  is  something  crude 
—  some  harsh  note  —  a  clangour  of  metal.  I 
find  him  brazen  —  at  times.  But  to  you,  my  love, 
who  could  be  strident?  You  are  the  very  home 
of  peace.  When  I  think  of  you  I  think  of  doves 
in  a  nest." 

"  You  must  think  of  me  to-morrow,  then,"  said 
Margery.  He  rewarded  her  with  a  look. 

Lucy,  for  her  part,  had  another  sort  of  danger 
in  her  mind.  It  seemed  absolutely  necessary  to 
her  now  to  speak  to  Urquhart,  because  she  had  a 
conviction  that  he  and  James  had  very  nearly 
come  to  grips.  Women  are  very  sharp  at  these 
things.  She  was  certain  that  Urquhart  knew  the 
state  of  her  heart,  just  as  certain  as  if  she  had  told 
him  of  it.  That  being  so,  she  dreaded  his  im- 
pulse. She  suspected  him  of  savagery,  and  as  she 
had  no  pride  where  love  was  concerned  she  in- 
tended to  appeal  to  him.  Modesty  she  had,  but 
no  pride.  She  must  leave  great  blanks  in  her  dis- 
course ;  but  she  trusted  him  to  fill  them  up.  Then 


260  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

there  was  another  difficulty.  She  had  no  remains 
of  tenderness  left  for  him:  not  a  filament.  Un- 
less she  went  warily  he  might  find  that  out  and  be 
mortally  offended.  All  this  she  battled  with 
while  the  good-nights  to  Lancelot  were  saying  up- 
stairs. She  kissed  his  forehead,  and  stood  over 
him  for  a  moment  while  he  snuggled  into  his 
blankets.  "  Oh,  my  lamb,  you  are  worth  fighting 
forl"  was  her  last  thought,  as  she  went  down- 
stairs full  of  her  purpose. 

The  card-players  sat  in  the  recess;  the  lovers 
were  outside.  Urquhart  was  by  himself  on  a 
divan.  She  thought  that  he  was  waiting  for  her. 

With  a  book  for  shield  against  the  lamp  she 
took  the  chair  he  offered  her.  "  Aren't  they  ex- 
traordinary?" she  said.  He  questioned. 

14  Who  is  extraordinary?  Do  you  mean  the 
card-sharpers?  Not  at  all.  It's  meat  and  drink 
to  them.  It's  we  who  are  out  of  the  common: 
daintier  feeders." 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  it's  not  quite  that.  James's 
strong  point  is  that  he  can  keep  his  feelings  in  sep- 
arate pigeonholes.  I'm  simply  quaking  with  fear, 
because  my  imagination  has  flooded  me.  But  he 
won't  think  about  the  risks  he's  running  —  until 
he  is  running  them." 


THE  DEPARTURE  261 

Urquhart  had  been  looking  at  her  until  he  dis- 
covered that  James  had  his  eye  upon  her  too. 
He  crossed  his  leg  and  clasped  the  knee  of  it;  he 
looked  fixedly  at  the  ceiling  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  what  it  is  you're  afraid 
of,"  he  said  in  a  carefully  literal  but  carefully  in- 
audible tone.  He  did  that  sort  of  thing  very 
well. 

Lucy  was  pinching  her  lip.  "  All  sorts  of 
things,"  she  said.  "  I  suffer  from  presentiments. 
I  think  that  you  or  James  may  be  hurt,  for  in- 
stance > — •" 

"  Do  you  mean,"  said  Urquhart  —  as  if  he  had 
been  saying  "  Where  did  you  get  this  tobacco  ?  " 
— "  Do  you  mean  that  you're  afraid  we  may  hurt 
each  other?  " 

She  hung  her  head  deeply. 

"  You  needn't  be.  If  you  can  fear  that  you 
must  forget  my  promise."  He  saw  her  eyes 
clear,  then  cloud  again  before  her  difficulties. 

"  James,  at  least,"  she  said,  "  has  never  done 
you  any  harm."  It  was  awfully  true.  But  it 
annoyed  him.  Damn  James! 

"  None  whatever,"  he  answered  sharply.  "  I 
wonder  if  I  haven't  done  him  any  good." 

Looking  at  her  guardedly,  through  half-closed 


262  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

eyes,  he  saw  that  she  was  strongly  moved.  Her 
bosom  rose  and  fell  hastily,  like  short  waves  lip- 
ping a  wharf.  Her  hands  were  shut  tight. 
"  You  have  been  the  best  friend  I  ever  had,"  she 
said.  "  Don't  think  I'm  not  grateful." 

That  came  better.  He  tapped  his  pipe  on  the 
ash-tray  at  hand.  "  My  dear,"  he  said,  "  I  in- 
tend to  live  on  your  gratitude.  Don't  be  afraid 
of  anything.  Lascla  fare  a  me."  She  rewarded 
him  with  a.  shy  kfok.  A  rueful  look,  it  cut  him 
like  a  knife ;  but  he  could  have  screwed  it  round  in 
the  wound  to  get  more  of  such  pain.  There's  no 
more  bitter-sweet  torment  to  a  man  than  the 
thanks  of  the  beloved  woman  for  her  freedom 
given  back  to  her. 

He  felt  very  sick  indeed  —  but  almost  entirely 
with  himself.  For  her  he  chose  to  have  pity;  of 
Macartney  he  would  not  allow  himself  to  think  at 
all.  Danger  lay  that  way,  and  he  did  not  in- 
tend to  be  dangerous.  He  would  not  even  re- 
member that  he  was  subject  to  whims.  The 
thought  flitted  over  his  mind,  like  an  angel  of 
death,  but  he  dismissed  it  with  an  effort.  After 
all,  what  good  could  come  of  freebooting?  The 
game  was  up.  Like  all  men  of  his  stamp,  he  cast 
about  him  far  and  wide  for  a  line  of  action;  for 


THE  DEPARTURE  263 

directly  the  Folgefond  walk  was  over  he  would  be 
off.  To  stay  here  was  intolerable  —  just  as  to 
back  out  of  the  walk  would  be  ignominious.  No, 
he  would  go  through  with  that  somehow;  but  from 
Odde,  he  thought,  he  might  send  for  his  things 
and  clear  out.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  he 
might  have  to  deal  with  Macartney.  What 
should  Macartney  want  that  he  had  not?  He 
had  vindicated  the  law! 

But  the  hour  was  come  when  Macartney  was  to 
know  everything.  Lucy  was  adorable,  and  he 
simply  adored  her;  then  in  the  melting  mood 
which  follows  she  sobbed  and  whispered  her 
broken  confession.  He  had  the  whole  story  from 
the  beginning. 

He  listened  and  learned;  he  was  confounded, 
he  was  deeply  touched.  He  might  have  been 
humiliated,  and  so  frozen;  he  might  have  been  of- 
fended, and  so  bitter;  but  he  was  neither.  Her 
tears,  her  sobs,  her  clinging,  her  burning  cheeks, 
the  flood  of  her  words,  or  the  sudden  ebb  which 
left  her  speechless  —  all  this  taught  him  what  he 
might  be  to  a  woman  who  dared  give  him  so  much. 
He  said  very  little  himself,  and  exacted  the  last 
dregs  from  her  cup.  He  drank  it  down  like  a 
thirsty  horse.  Probably  it  was  as  sweet  for  him 


264  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

to  drink  as  for  her  to  pour;  for  love  is  a  strange 
affair  and  can  be  its  own  poison  and  antidote. 

At  the  end  he  forgot  his  magnanimity,  so  great 
was  his  need  of  hers.  "  You  have  opened  my 
eyes  to  my  own  fatuity.  You  have  made  me  what 
I  never  thought  I  could  be.  I  am  your  lover  — 
do  you  know  that?  And  I  have  been  your  hus- 
band for  how  long?  Your  husband,  Lucy,  and 
now  your  lover.  Never  let  these  things  trouble 
you  any  more." 

She  clung  to  him  with  passion.  "  I  love  you," 
she  said.  "  I  adore  you.  If  I've  been  wicked, 
it  was  to  prove  you  good  to  me,  and  to  crush  me 
to  the  earth.  Love  me  again  — ?  I  am  yours  for- 
ever." 

Later  she  was  able  to  talk  freely  to  him,  as  of  a 
thing  past  and  done.  "  It's  very  odd;  I  can't  un- 
derstand it.  You  didn't  begin  to  love  me  until  he 
did,  and  then  you  loved  me  for  what  he  saw  in  me. 
Isn't  that  true  ?  " 

"  I  couldn't  tell  you,"  he  said,  "  because  I  don't 
know  what  he  did  see." 

"  He  thought  I  was  pretty — " 

"  So  you  are : — " 

"  He  thought  that  I  liked  to  be  noticed  — " 


THE  DEPARTURE  265 

"  Well,  and  you  do  — " 

"  Of  course.     But  it  never  struck  you." 

"  No  —  fool  that  I  was." 

"  I  love  you  for  your  foolishness." 

"  Yes,  but  you  didn't." 

"  No,"  she  said  quickly.  "  No !  because  you 
wouldn't  allow  it.  You  must  let  women  love  be- 
fore you  can  expect  them  to  be  meek." 

He  laughed.     "  Do  you  intend  to  be  meek?" 

Then  it  was  her  turn  to  laugh.  "  I  should 
think  I  did!  That's  my  pride  and  joy.  You 
may  do  what  you  like  now." 

He  found  that  a  hard  saying;  but  it  is  a  very 
true  one. 

The  departure  was  made  early.  Lucy  came 
down  to  breakfast,  and  the  boys;  but  Margery 
Dacre  did  not  appear.  Vera  of  course  did  not. 
Noon  was  her  time.  The  boys  were  to  cross  the 
fiord  with  them  and  return  in  the  boat.  Lucy 
would  not  go,  seeing  what  was  the  matter  with 
Urquhart. 

Urquhart  indeed  was  in  a  parlous  frame  of 
mind.  He  was  very  grim  to  all  but  the  boys. 
He  was  to  them  what  he  had  always  been.  Polite 
and  very  quiet  in  his  ways  with  Lucy,  he  had  no 


266  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

word  for  either  of  his  companions.  James 
treated  him  with  deference;  Francis  Lingen,  who 
felt  himself  despised,  was  depressed. 

"Jolly  party!"  said  Lancelot,  really  meaning 
it,  and  made  Urquhart  laugh.  But  Lucy  shud- 
dered at  such  a  laugh.  She  thought  of  the  wolves 
in  the  Zoological  Gardens  when  at  sundown  they 
greet  the  night.  It  made  her  blood  feel  cold  in 
her  veins. 

"  If  no  one's  going  to  enjoy  himself,  why  does 
anybody  go  ?  "  she  said  at  a  venture.  James  pro- 
tested that  he  was  going  to  enjoy  himself  pro- 
digiously. As  for  Lingen,  he  said,  it  would  do 
him  no  end  of  good. 

"  I  jolly  well  wish  I  could  go,"  was  Lancelot's 
fishing  shot,  and  Lucy,  who  was  really  sorry  for 
Urquhart,  was  tempted  to  urge  it.  But  James 
would  not  have  heard  of  such  a  thing,  she  knew. 

Then  they  went,  with  a  great  deal  of  fuss  and 
bustle.  James,  a  great  stickler  for  the  conven- 
tions, patted  her  shoulder  for  all  good-bye.  Ur- 
quhart waited  his  chance. 

"  Good-bye,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "  I've  had  my 
innings  here.  You  won't  see  me  again,  I  expect. 
I  ask  your  pardon  for  many  things  —  but  I  be- 
lieve that  we  are  pretty  well  quits.  Trust  me 


THE  DEPARTURE  267 

with  your  James,  won't  you?  Good-bye."  He 
asked  her  that  to  secure  himself  against  whims. 

She  could*  do  no  more  than  give  him  her  hand. 
He  kissed  it,  and  left  her.  The  boat  was  pushed 
out.  Urquhart  took  the  helm,  with  Lancelot  in 
the  crook  of  his  arm.  He  turned  once  and  waved 
his  cap. 

14  There  goes  a  man  any  woman  could  love," 
she  told  herself.  If  she  had  a  regret  she  had  it 
not  long.  "  Some  natural  tears  they  shed,  but 
dried  them  soon." 

They  made  a  good  landing,  bestowed  their  gear 
in  a  cart,  and  set  out  for  a  long  climb  to  Brattebo, 
which  they  reached  in  the  late  afternoon  —  a 
lonely  farm  on  the  side  of  a  naked  hill.  They 
slept  there,  and  were  to  rise  at  four  for  the  snow- 
field. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

CATASTROPHE 

THEY  were  up  and  away  before  the  light, 
taking  only  one  guide  with  them,  a 
sinewy,  dark  man  with  a  clubbed  beard  on 
his  chin.  If  they  had  had  two  it  had  been  better, 
and  Urquhart,  who  knew  that,  made  a  great  fuss ; 
but  to  no  purpose.  All  the  men  were  at  the 
soeters,  they  were  told;  haymaking  was  in  full 
swing  out  there.  There  was  nothing  to  be  done. 
Urquhart  was  put  out,  and  in  default  of  another 
man  of  sense  made  James  his  partner  in  griefs. 
"  I  know  these  chaps,"  he  said.  "  When  they  are 
alone  they  lose  their  heads.  The  least  little  diffi- 
culty, they  shy  off  and  turn  for  home.  I  judge 
this  man  of  ours  to  have  the  heart  of  a  mouse. 
He  don't  want  to  go  at  all.  If  there  are  two  of 
them  they  egg  each  other  on.  They  talk  it  over. 
Each  tries  to  be  the  bolder  man." 

"  But  is   there   going  to  be  any  difficulty? " 
James  enquired,  surveying  the  waste  through  his 

268 


CATASTROPHE  269; 

eyeglass.     "  I  don't  see  why  there  should  be." 

"You  never  know,"  Urquhart  said  curtly;  but 
presently  he  was  more  confidential.  "  Don't  tell 
that  ass  Lingen;  but  it  might  be  quite  difficult  to 
get  off  this  place." 

James  stared  about  him.  *  You  know  best. 
But  is  it  harder  to  get  off  than  on?  " 

"  Of  course  it  is,  my  dear  chap,"  said  Urqu- 
hart, quite  in  his  old  vein  of  good-tempered  scorn. 
"  We  are  going  up  on  the  north  side,  where  the 
snow  is  as  hard  as  a  brick." 

"  Ah,"  said  James,  "  now  I  see.  And  we  go 
down  on  the  south,  where  it's  as  soft' — " 

"  Where  it  may  be  as  soft  as  a  bran-mash.  Or 
blown  over  into  cornices." 

James  saw,  or  said  that  he  did.  In  his  private 
mind  he  judged  Urquhart  of  trying  to  intimidate 
him.  The  vice  of  the  expert!  But  he  noticed 
that  the  guide  had  a  coil  of  rope,  and  that  Urqu- 
hart carried  a  shovel. 

It  was  easy  going  until  near  noon,  with  no  snow 
to  speak  about.  They  climbed  a  series  of  ridges, 
like  frozen  waves;  but  each  was  higher  than  the 
last,  and  took  them  closer  to  the  clouds.  When 
they  lunched  under  the  shelter  of  some  tumbled 
rocks  a  drifting  rain  blew  across  the  desolation. 


270  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

"Jolly  I  "  said  James,  but  quite  happily.  Lin- 
gen  shivered. 

"  My  dear  man,"  said  Urquhart,  "  just  you 
wait.  I'll  surprise  you  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour's 
time."  He  spoke  in  his  old  way,  as  hectoring 
whom  he  tolerated.  James  noticed  it,  and  was 
amused.  He  hadn't  yet  had  time  to  be  angry 
with  this  rascal;  and  now  he  began  to  doubt 
whether  he  should.  After  all,  he  had  gained  so 
very  much  more  than  he  had  lost.  Honour? 
Oh,  that  be  jiggered.  Something  too  much  of  his 
own  honour.  Why,  it  was  through  Urquhart's 
attack  upon  Lucy  that  he  had  found  out  what 
Lucy  was.  Urquhart,  at  this  time,  was  marching 
rather  in  front  of  him:  James  looked  him  over. 
A  hardy,  impudent  rogue,  no  doubt  —  with  that 
square,  small  head  on  him,  that  jutting  chin  — 
and  his  pair  of  blue  eyes  which  would  look 
through  any  woman  born  and  burn  her  heart  to 
water.  Yes,  and  so  he  had  had  Lucy's  heart  — 
as  water  to  be  poured  over  his  feet.  By  Heaven, 
when  he  thought  of  it,  he,  James  Adolphus,  had 
been  the  greater  rogue:  to  play  the  Grand  Turk; 
to  hoard  that  lovely,  quivering  creature  in  his  still 
seraglio ;  to  turn  the  key,  and  leave  her  there ! 
And  Jimmy  Urquhart  got  in  by  the  window.  Of 


CATASTROPHE  271 

course  he  did.  He  was  not  an  imaginative  man 
by  nature;  but  he  was  now  a  lover  and  had  need 
to  enhance  his  mistress.  How  better  do  that  than 
by  calling  himself  a  d — d  fool  (the  greatest  blame 
he  knew)  ?  It  follows  that  if  he  had  been  a  fool, 
Urquhart  had  not  I  Impudent  dog,  if  you  like, 
but  not  a  fool.  Now,  for  the  life  of  him,  James 
could  not  despise  a  man  who  was  not  a  fool. 
Nor  could  he  hate  one  whom  he  had  bested.  He 
did  not  hate  Urquhart;  he  wasn't  angry  with  him; 
he  couldn't  despise  him.  On  the  contrary,  he  was 
sorry  for  him. 

But  now  the  miracle  happened,  and  one  could 
think  of  nothing  else.  As  they  tramped  through 
the  cold  mist,  over  snow  that  was  still  crisp  and 
short  with  frost,  the  light  gained  by  degrees. 
The  flying  fog  became  blue,  then  radiant:  quite 
suddenly  they  burst  into  the  sun.  The  dazzling 
field  stretched  on  all  sides  so  far  as  the  eye  could 
see.  Snow  and  cloud,  one  could  not  distinguish 
them;  and  above  them  the  arch  of  hyaline,  a  blue 
interwoven  with  light,  which  throbbed  to  the  point 
of  utterance,  and  drowned  itself  in  the  photo- 
sphere. The  light  seemed  to  make  the  sun,  to 
climb  towards  the  zenith,  to  mass  and  then  to 
burst  in  flame.  All  three  men  took  it  in,  each  in 


272  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

his  fashion.  Lingen  was  greatly  moved;  Urqu- 
hart  became  jocular. 

"  Well,"  he  said  to  Macartney,  "  what  do  you 
make  of  that?  That's  worth  coming  up  for. 
That  ought  to  extenuate  a  good  deal."  James 
was  quick  to  notice  the  phrase. 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  "  you  can  show  me  things. 
I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you.  This  is  a  wonder 
of  the  world." 

"  Now  what  the  deuce  does  he  mean  by  that?  " 
Urquhart  thought  to  himself.  Had  Lucy  told 
him  anything?  He  didn't  believe  it.  Impossi- 
ble. Women  don't  tell. 

They  had  seven  miles  of  snow,  pretty  soft  by 
now,  and  steadily  up  hill.  They  bent  themselves 
seriously  to  it,  and  found  no  occasion  for  talk. 
There  were  crevasses  —  green  depths  of  death  — 
to  be  avoided.  Their  guide,  light-eyed  for  scares, 
seemed  to  know  them  all,  and  reserved  his  alarum 
for  signs  in  the  sky  invisible  to  the  party.  He 
mended  the  pace,  which  became  rather  severe. 
Francis  Lingen  was  distressed;  Macartney  kept 
back  to  give  him  company.  Urquhart  forged  on 
ahead  with  the  guide. 

By  four  in  the  afternoon  one  at  least  of  them 
was  gruelled.  That  was  Lingen.  "  If  we  don't 


CATASTROPHE  273 

get  down  after  all,  it'll  go  hard  with  Poplolly," 
Urquhart  said  to  James.  James  replied,  "  Oh, 
we  must  get  down.  That's  all  nonsense."  Ur- 
quhart said  nothing,  and  they  went  on. 

They  reached  a  point  where  their  guide, 
stopping  for  a  moment,  looked  back  at  them  and 
pointed  forward  with  his  staff.  "  Odde  is  over 
there,"  he  said,  and  Urquhart  added  that  he  knew 
whereabouts  they  were.  "  If  it  were  clear 
enough,"  he  told  them,  "  you  might  see  it  all  lying 
below  you  like  a  map;  but  I  doubt  if  you'll  see 
anything."  They  pushed  on. 

Before  the  last  slope,  which  was  now  close  at 
hand,  the  ground  became  very  bad.  The  cre- 
vasses showed  in  every  direction,  raying  out  like 
cracks  on  an  old  bench.  The  guide  was  evidently 
anxious.  He  gave  up  all  appearance  of  conduct- 
ing his  party  and  went  off  rapidly  by  himself. 
They  waited  for  him  in  silence ;  but  presently  Ur- 
quhart said,  "  I  bet  you  any  money  he  won't  want 
to  go  down." 

"  Don't  he  want  to  dine  as  much  as  we  do?" 
said  James. 

"  He  doesn't  want  to  break  his  neck,"  said 
Urquhart;  "  that's  his  little  weakness." 

"I  sympathise  with  him,"  James  said;  "but 


274  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

I  should  like  to  know  more  before  I  turn  back." 

"  You'll  only  know  what  he  chooses  to  tell  you," 
Urquhart  answered.  Lingen  was  sitting  on  the 
snow. 

The  guide  came  back  with  firm  steps.  His  eyes 
sought  Urquhart's  naturally. 

"Well?"  he  was  asked;  and  lifted  his  stock 
up. 

"  Impossible,"  he  said. 

"Why  impossible?"  James  asked  Urquhart, 
having  none  of  the  language,  but  guessing  at  the 
word. 

Urquhart  and  the  man  talked;  the  latter  was 
eloquent. 

"  He  says,"  Urquhart  told  them,  "  that  there's 
a  great  cornice,  and  a  drop  of  forty  feet  or  so. 
Then  he  thinks  there's  another;  but  he's  not  sure 
of  that.  He  intends  to  go  back.  I  knew  he  did 
before  he  went  out  to  look.  It's  a  beastly  nui- 
sance." 

James  looked  at  Lingen,  who  was  now  on  his 
feet.  "  Well,"  he  said,  "  what  do  you  feel  about 
it?" 

Lingen,  red  in  the  face,  said,  "  You'll  excuse 
me,  but  I  shall  do  what  the  guide  proposes,  though 
I  admit  to  great  fatigue.  I  don't  think  it  would 


CATASTROPHE  275 

be  right,  under  the  circumstances,  to  do  otherwise. 
I  feel  a  great  responsibility;  but  I  gather  that,  in 
any  case,  he  himself  would  decline  to  go  down. 
You  will  think  me  timid,  I  dare  say." 

"  No,  no,"  James  said.  "  That's  all  right,  of 
course.  Personally,  I  should  be  inclined  to  try 
the  first  cornice  anyhow.  There's  always  a 
chance,  you  know." 

Urquhart  looked  at  him  keenly.  "  Do  you 
mean  that?"  he  asked  him. 

"Yes,"  James  said.  "Why  do  you  ask?" 
Urquhart  turned  away.  When  he  faced  James 
again  he  was  strangely  altered.  His  eyes  were 
narrower;  lines  showed  beside  his  mouth.  Temp- 
tation was  hot  in  the  mouth.  "  We'd  better  talk 
about  it,"  he  said,  and  jerked  his  head  sideways. 

James  walked  with  him  a  little  way.  "  What's 
all  this  mystery?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  know  what  you  are  doing," 
Urquhart  said;  "  I  wonder  if  you  know  what  this 
means.  Do  you  know,  for  instance,  that  I  don't 
care  a  damn  whether  I  break  my  neck  or  not,  and 
on  the  whole  would  rather  that  you  did  than 
didn't?  You  ought  to  know  it.  But  I'm  asking 
you." 

James  kept  his  eyeglass  to  his  eye.     "  I  think 


276  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

you  are  talking  nonsense,"  he  said,  "  but  I  don't 
suppose  you  intend  it  for  nonsense.  You  inspire 
me  to  say,  taking  you  on  your  face  value,  that  I 
shall  try  the  first  cornice.  If  it's  a  forty- foot 
drop,  we  ought  to  have  rope  enough." 

Urquhart  peered  at  him.  "  You  mean  what 
you  say?  " 

"  Certainly  I  do."  Urquhart  turned  on  his 
heel. 

"  All  right,"  he  said,  and  went  over  to  the 
other  two. 

"  Macartney  and  I  are  going  down,"  he  said 
to  Lingen.  "  I  don't  at  all  blame  you  for  going 
back,  but  I'll  trouble  you  to  see  that  this  man  does 
the  needful  to-morrow.  The  needful  is  to  come 
out  here  as  early  as  he  can  get  over  the  ground, 
to  see  if  we  want  him.  He  had  better  fire  a  gun, 
or  shout.  If  we  are  alive  we  shall  answer  him. 
If  we  don't  answer,  he  had  better  see  about  it. 
I  don't  want  to  scare  you,  but  this  is  not  a  joke, 
and  I  can't  afford  to  be  misunderstood.  Now  I'm 
going  to  tell  him  all  that  in  his  own  lingo." 

Lingen  took  it  very  badly;  but  said  nothing. 
Urquhart  spoke  vehemently  to  the  guide,  who 
raised  his  staff  and  appeared  to  be  testifying  to 
Heaven.  He  handed  over  the  rope,  the  shovel, 


CATASTROPHE  277 

and  the  kit  with  an  air  of  Pilate  washing  his 
hands. 

"  Now,"  Urquhart  said  to  James,  "  we'll  rope, 
and  see  if  we  can  cut  some  steps  through  this 
thing.  I've  seen  that  done."  James,  dropping 
his  eyeglass,  said  that  he  was  in  his  hands. 
Everybody  was  quiet,  but  they  were  all  in  a  hurry. 

Lingen  came  up  to  say  good-bye.  He  was  very 
much  distressed,  nearly  crying.  The  guide,  on 
the  other  hand,  was  chafing  to  be  off.  "  If  that 
chap  calls  himself  a  guide,"  said  Urquhart,  "  he 
ought  to  be  shot."  The  guide  thereupon  threw 
up  his  hands  with  a  gesture  of  despair.  Lingen 
said  that  he  couldn't  possibly  go  until  he  had  seen 
them  down.  The  guide,  who  was  sullen  and 
nervous,  remained  to  help  them.  Even  that 
seemed  to  be  against  his  convictions. 

They  fixed  one  of  the  stocks  in  a  crevasse;  Ur- 
quhart roped.  Then  he  went  forward  to  the 
edge,  or  what  seemed  to  be  the  edge,  and  having 
crawled  on  his  belly  so  far  as  to  be  almost  invisi- 
ble, presently  was  seen  to  be  standing  up,  then  to 
fall  to  it  with  the  shovel.  He  seemed  to  be 
cutting  steps,  and  descending  as  he  worked. 
Gradually  he  disappeared,  and  the  pull  on  the 
rope  began.  They  paid  out  cautiously  and  regu- 


278  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

larly  —  all  seemed  well.  He  might  have  had 
twenty  feet  of  it;  and  then  there  was  a  sudden 
violent  wrench  at  it,  and  it  came  back  limp  in 
Macartney's  hands. 

"  He's  gone,"  he  said.  Then  he  shouted  with 
all  his  might.  No  answer  came.  They  all 
shouted;  the  echoes  rang  round  the  waste,  driven 
back  on  them  from  the  hidden  mountain  tops.  In 
the  deathlike  hush  which  followed  one  of  them 
thought  to  hear  an  answering  cry.  Lingen  heard 
it,  or  thought  that  he  did,  and  began  to  haul  up 
the  rope.  When  they  had  the  end  of  it  in  their 
hands  it  was  found  to  be  cut  clean.  "  He  did 
that  himself,"  James  said,  then  added,  "  I'm 
going  down.  Give  me  out  this  rope  —  for  what 
it's  worth."  To  Lingen  he  said,  "  Get  back  as 
quick  as  you  can,  and  bring  up  some  men  to-mor- 
row." Then,  having  secured  himself,  he  went 
down  the  flawless  snow  slope,  and  they  paid  out 
the  cord  as  he  wanted  it.  He  had  no  particular 
sensation  of  fear;  he  knew  too  little  about  it  to 
have  any.  It  is  imaginative  men  who  fear  the  un- 
known. True,  the  rope  had  been  cut  once,  and 
might  have  to  be  cut  again.  If  Urquhart  had  had 
to  cut,  it  was  because  it  had  been  too  short.  And 


CATASTROPHE  279 

now  it  would  be  shorter.  But  there  was  no  time 
to  think  of  anything. 

The  snow  seemed  to  be  holding  him.  He  had 
got  far  beyond  Urquhart's  ledges,  was  upon  the 
place  T;  '  Urquhart  must  have  slid  rapidly 
down.  All  was  well  as  yet,  but  he  didn't  want  to 
overshoot  the  mark.  He  kept  his  nerve  steady, 
and  tried  to  work  it  all  out  in  his  mind.  If  this 
were  really  a  cornice  it  must  now  be  very  thin,  he 
thought.  He  drove  at  it  with  his  staff,  and  found 
that  it  was  so.  It  was  little  more  than  a  frozen 
crust.  He  kicked  into  it  with  his  feet,  got  a  foot- 
hold, and  worked  the  hole  bigger.  Then  he 
could  peer  down  into  the  deep,  where  the  shad- 
ows were  intensely  blue.  It  looked  a  fearful 
drop;  but  he  saw  Urquhart  lying  there,  and  went 
on.  He  descended  some  ten,  or  perhaps  fifteen 
feet  more,  and  found  himself  dangling  in  the  air. 
He  was  at  the  end  of  the  rope  then.  "  I'll  risk 
it,"  he  said,  and  got  his  knife  out. 

He  dropped  within  a  few  yards  of  Urquhart. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

JAMES   AND  JIMMY 

MACARTNEY  found  him  lying  very  still; 
nothing,  in  fact,  seemed  to  be  alive  but 
his  eyes,  which  were  wide  open  and 
missed  nothing. 

"  You're  hurt,  I'm  afraid.  Can  you  tell  me 
anything?  " 

Urquhart  spoke  in  a  curiously  level  tone.  It 
seemed  to  give  impartiality  to  what  he  said,  as  if 
he  had  been  discussing  the  troubles  of  a  man  he 
hardly  knew. 

"  Back  broken,  I  believe.  Anyhow,  I  can't  feel 
anything.  I'm  sorry  you  came  down  after  me." 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  James,  "  what  do  you 
take  me  for?  " 

Those  bright,  all-seeing,  steady  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  him.  They  had  the  air  of  knowing  every- 
thing. 

"  Well,  you  knew  what  I  did  take  you  for,  any- 
how, and  so  it  would  have  been  reasonable  — " 

11  We  won't  talk  about  all  that,"  James  said. 
280 


JAMES  AND  JIMMY  281 

"  Let  me  cover  you  up  with  something  —  and 
then  I'll  see  what  can  be  done  about  moving  you." 

Urquhart  spoke  indifferently  about  that.  "  I 
doubt  if  you  can  get  down  —  and  it's  a  good  step 
to  Odde.  Four  hours,  I  dare  say." 

"  Yes,  but  there  would  be  a  house  nearer  than 
Odde.  If  I  could  get  some  bearers  —  we'd  get 
you  comfortable  before  dark." 

"  Oh,  I'm  comfortable  enough  now,"  Urquhart 
said.  James  thought  that  a  bad  sign. 

He  unpacked  the  rucksacks,  got  out  the  brandy- 
flask,  a  mackintosh,  a  sweater  and  a  cape. 
"  Now,  my  dear  man,  I'm  going  to  hurt  you,  I'm 
afraid;  but  I  must  have  you  on  a  dry  bed;  and  you 
must  drink  some  of  this  liquor.  Which  will  you 
have  first?  " 

"  The  brandy,"  said  Urquhart,  "  and  as  soon 
as  you  like." 

He  helped  as  much  as  he  could,  groaned  once 
or  twice,  sweated  with  the  effort;  but  the  thing  was 
done.  He  lay  on  the  mackintosh,  his  head  on  a 
rucksack,  the  cape  and  sweater  over  him.  Ma- 
cartney went  to  the  edge  of  the  plateau  to  pros- 
pect. A  billowy  sea  of  white  stretched  out  to  a 
blue  infinity.  The  clouds  had  lifted  or  been 
vaporised.  He  could  see  nothing  of  Odde;  but 


282  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

he  believed  that  he  could  make  out  a  thread  of 
silver,  which  must  be  the  fiord.  It  would  take 
him  too  long  to  get  out  there  and  back  —  and  yet 
to  stay  here !  That  meant  that  the  pair  of  them 
would  die.  It  is  but  just  to  him  to  say  that  no 
alternative  presented  itself  to  him.  The  pair  of 
them  would  die?  Well,  yes.  What  else  was 
there?  He  returned.  Urquhart  was  waiting 
for  him,  intensely  awake  to  everything. 

"  Old  chap,"  said  James,  "  that's  no  go.  I 
didn't  try  the  snow;  but  I  can  judge  distances. 
It's  a  deuce  of  a  way  down,  even  if  there  is  a  way, 
and—" 

"  It's  all  right,"  Urquhart  said,  "  there  isn't  a 
way.  I'm  cornered  this  time.  But  there's  just 
a  chance  for  you  —  if  you  work  at  it.  It'll  begin 
to  freeze  —  in  fact,  it  has  begun  already.  Now 
if  you  can  find  the  shovel,  you  might  employ  your- 
self finely,  digging  a  stairway.  You'll  be  up  by 
midnight." 

"  Never  mind  about  me,"  James  said.  "  I'm 
going  to  keep  you  warm  first." 

But  Urquhart  was  fretting.  He  frowned  and 
moved  his  head  about.  "  No,  no,  don't  begin 
that.  It's  not  worth  it  —  and  I  can't  have  you 
do  it.  You  ought  to  know  who  I  am  before  you 


JAMES  AND  JIMMY  283 

begin  the  Good  Samaritan  stunt.  I  want  to  talk 
to  you  while  I  can.  I've  got  a  good  deal  to  tell 
you.  That  will  be  better  for  me  than  anything." 
Jimmy  was  prepared  for  something  of  the  kind. 

"  I  believe  it  will,"  he  said.  "  Go  on,  then, 
and  get  it  over." 

It  had  been  his  first  impulse  to  assure  the  poor 
chap  that  he  knew  all  about  it ;  but  a  right  instinct 
stopped  him.  He  would  have  to  hear  it. 

So  Urquhart  began  his  plain  tale,  and  as  he  got 
into  it  the  contrast  between  it  and  himself  became 
revolting,  even  to  him.  A  hale  man  might  have 
brazened  it  out  with  a  better  air.  A  little  of  the 
romance  with  which  it  had  begun,  which  indeed 
alone  made  it  tolerable,  would  have  been  about  it 
still.  A  sicker  man  than  Urquhart,  who  made  a 
hard  death  for  himself,  would  have  given  up  the 
battle,  thrown  himself  at  James's  feet  and  asked 
no  quarter.  Urquhart  was  not  so  far  gone  as 
that;  a  little  bluster  remained.  He  did  it  badly. 
He  didn't  mean  to  be  brutal;  he  meant  to  be 
honest;  but  it  sounded  brutal,  and  James  could 
hardly  endure  it. 

He  saw,  too,  as  the  poor  chap  went  on,  that  he 
was  getting  angry,  and  doing  himself  harm. 
That  was  so.  Every  step  he  took  in  his  narrative 


284  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

sharpened  the  edge  of  the  fate  which  cut  him  off. 
He  would  have  made  a  success  of  it  if  he  could  — 
but  he  had  been  really  broken  before  he  broke  his 
back,  and  the  knowledge  exasperated  him. 

So  he  took  refuge  in  bluster,  made  himself  out 
worse  than  he  was,  and  in  so  doing  distorted  Lucy. 
James  was  in  torment,  remembering  what  he  must. 
He  felt  her  arms  close  about  his  neck;  he  felt  the 
rush  of  her  words :  "  And  oh,  darling,  I  thought 
it  was  you  —  of  course  I  thought  so  —  and  I  was 
proud  and  happy  —  that  you  should  like  me  so 
much!  I  looked  at  myself  in  the  glass  after- 
wards. I  thought,  '  You  must  be  rather  pretty/ 
.  .  ."  Oh,  Heaven,  and  this  mocking,  dying  devil, 
with  his  triumphs! 

"  Say  no  more,  man,  say  no  more,"  broke  from 
him.  "  I  understand  the  rest.  I  have  nothing  to 
say  to  you.  You  did  badly  —  you  did  me  a 
wrong  —  and  her  too.  But  it's  done  with,  and 
she  (God  bless  her!)  can  take  no  harm.  How 
can  she  ?  She  acted  throughout  with  a  pure  mind. 
She  thought  that  you  were  me,  and  when  she 
found  that  you  weren't  —  well,  well,  take  your 
pride  in  that.  I  give  it  up  to  you.  Why 
shouldn't  I?  She  gave  you  her  innocent  heart. 
I  don't  grudge  you." 


JAMES  AND  JIMMY  285 

"  You  needn't,"  said  Urquhart,  "  since  I'm  a 
dead  man.  But  if  I  had  been  a  living  one,  who 
knows — ?  "  He  laughed  bitterly,  and  stung  the 
other. 

"  You  forget  one  thing,"  said  James,  with 
something  of  his  old  frozen  calm.  "  For  all  that 
you  knew,  ten  minutes  after  you  had  left  my  house 
that  day  —  the  first  of  them  —  I  might  have  bene- 
fited by  your  act  —  and  you  been  none  the  wiser, 
nor  I  any  the  worse  off.  And  there  would  have 
been  an  end  of  it." 

Urquhart  considered  the  point.  James  could 
have  seen  it  working  in  his  poor,  wicked,  silly 
mind,  but  kept  his  face  away. 

"Yes,"  Urquhart  said,  "you  might;  but  you 
didn't."  Then  he  laughed  again  —  not  a  pleas- 
ant sound. 

"  Man,"  said  James  indignant,  "  don't  you 
see?  What  robs  me  of  utterance  is  that  I  have 
benefited  by  what  you  have  done." 

"  It's  more  than  you  have  deserved,  in  my  opin- 
ion," Urquhart  retorted.  "  I'll  ask  you  not  to 
forget  that  she  has  loved  me,  and  doesn't  blame 
me.  And  I'll  ask  you  not  to  forget  that  it  is  I 
who  am  telling  you  all  this,  and  not  she."  It  was 
his  last  bite. 


286  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

The  retort  was  easy,  and  would  have  crushed 
him;  but  James  did  not  make  it.  Let  him  have 
his  pitiful  triumph.  He  was  not  angry  any  more; 
he  couldn't  be  —  and  there  was  Lucy  to  be 
thought  of.  What  would  Urquhart  think  of  a 
Lucy  who  could  have  revealed  such  things  as 
these?  He  would  have  judged  her  brazen,  little 
knowing  the  warm  passion  of  her  tears.  Ah,  not 
for  him  these  holy  moments.  No,  let  him  die 
thinking  honour  of  her  —  honour  according  to  his 
own  code.  He  put  his  hand  out  and  touched 
Urquhart's  face  with  the  back  of  it. 

"Let  us  leave  it  at  this,"  he  said;  "we  both 
love  her.  We  are  neither  of  us  fit.  She  would 
have  taken  either  of  us.  But  I  came  first,  and 
then  came  Lancelot  —  and  she  loves  the  law. 
Put  it  no  other  way." 

"  The  law,  the  law ! "  said  the  fretful,  smitten 
man. 

'  The  law  of  her  nature,"  said  James. 

He  felt  Urquhart's  piercing  eyes  to  be  upon  him 
and  schooled  himself  to  face  them  and  to  smile 
into  them.  To  his  surprise  he  saw  them  fill  with 
tears. 

"  You  are  a  good  chap,"  Urquhart  said.     "  I 


JAMES  AND  JIMMY  287 

never  knew  that  before."  Macartney  blew  his 
nose. 

No  more  was  said,  but  the  sufferer  now  allowed 
him  to  do  what  he  would.  He  chafed  his  hands 
and  arms  with  brandy;  took  off  his  boots  and 
chafed  his  feet.  He  succeeded  in  getting  a  cer- 
tain warmth  into  him,  and  into  himself  too.  He 
began  to  be  hopeful. 

"  I  think  I  shall  pull  you  through,"  he  told 
him.  "  You  ought  to  be  a  pretty  hard  case.  I 
suppose  you  don't  know  how  you  came  to  fall  so 
badly."  ' 

"  Well,  I  do,"  Urquhart  said. 

"  Don't  tell  me  if  you'd  rather  not." 

"Oh,  what  does  it  matter  now?  It  was  a 
whim." 

James  smiled.     "Another  whim?" 

"  Yes  —  and  another  fiasco.  You  see,  in  a 
way,  I  had  dared  you  to  come." 

"  I  admit  that." 

"  Well,  I  hadn't  played  fair.  I  knew,  and 
you  didn't,  that  it  was  a  bad  job.  You  can't  get 
down  this  way  —  not  when  the  snow's  like  this." 

"Oh,  can't  you?" 

"  I  think  not.     Well,  I  ought  to  have  told  you. 


288  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

I  was  tempted.  That's  the  worst  thing  I  ever 
did.  I  ask  your  pardon  for  that." 

"  You  have  it,  old  chap,"  said  James. 

"  You  can  afford  to  be  magnanimous,"  Urqu- 
hart  snapped  out  fiercely.  "  Damn  it,  you  have 
everything.  But  I  felt  badly  about  it  as  I  was 
going  down,  and  I  thought,  *  They'll  feel  the 
break,  and  know  it's  all  over.  So  I  cut  the 
painter  —  do  you  see?" 

11  Yes,"  said  James,  "  I  see."  He  did  indeed 
see. 

Urquhart  began  to  grow  drowsy  and  to  resent 
interference.  He  was  too  far  gone  to  think  of 
anything  but  the  moment's  ease.  James,  on  the 
other  hand,  was  entirely  absorbed  in  his  patient. 
"  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  sleep,"  he  said.  "  It's 
no  good  making  a  fuss.  I've  got  the  kinch  on 
you  now."  It  was  as  much  as  he  had.  The  air 
was  biting  cold,  and  the  colder  it  got  the  more  in- 
sistent on  sleep  Urquhart  became. 

James  stared  about  him.  Was  this  the  world 
that  he  knew?  Were  kindly  creatures  moving 
about  somewhere  in  it,  helping  each  other?  Was 
Lucy  in  this  place?  Had  she  lain  against  his 
heart  two  nights  ago?  Had  he  been  so  blessed? 
Had  life  slipped  by- — and  was  this  the  end? 


JAMES  AND  JIMMY  289 

Which  was  the  reality,  and  which  the  dream? 
If  both  had  been  real,  and  this  was  the  end  of 
men's  endeavour  —  if  this  were  death  —  if  one 
slipped  out  in  this  cur's  way,  the  tail  between  the 
legs  —  why  not  end  it?  He  could  sleep  himself, 
he  thought.  Suppose  he  lay  by  this  brother  cur 
of  his  and  slept?  Somewhere  out  beyond  this 
cold  there  were  men  by  firelight  kissing  their 
wives.  Poor  chaps,  they  didn't  know  the  end. 
This  was  the  end  —  loneliness  and  cold.  Yes, 
but  you  could  sleep  I  ... 

Suddenly  he  started,  intent  and  quivering.  He 
had  heard  a  cry.  Every  fibre  of  him  claimed  life. 
He  listened,  breathlessly.  Above  the  knocking  of 
his  own  heart  he  heard  it  again.  No  doubt  at  all. 
He  turned  to  Urquhart  and  shook  him.  '  They 
are  coming  —  they  are  coming  —  we  are  going 
to  be  saved!"  He  was  violently  moved;  tears 
were  streaming  down  his  face.  Urquhart,  out  of 
those  still,  aware,  dreadfully  intelligent  eyes, 
seemed  to  see  them  coming — whoever  they  were. 
He  too,  and  his  pitiful  broken  members,  were  call-, 
ing  on  life. 

James,   on  his   feet,   shouted  with  might  and 
main,  and  presently  was  answered  from  near  at 


290  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

hand.  Then  he  saw  Lingen  and  the  guide  wading 
through  the  snow.  "  They  have  found  us,"  he 
told  Urquhart;  "  it's  Francis  Lingen  and  the 
guide.  How  they've  done  it  I  don't  pretend  to 
guess." 

"  They've  got  around  the  cornice,"  Urquhart 
said.  "  It  can  be  done  I  know."  He  seemed  in- 
different again,  even  annoyed  again  that  he 
couldn't  be  allowed  to  sleep.  James  thought  it  a 
pose,  this  time. 

Lingen,  out  of  breath  but  extremely  tri- 
umphant, met  James. 

"  Thank  God,"  he  said.  James  with  lifted 
brows  waved  his  head  backward  to  indicate  the 
sufferer. 

"  He's  very  bad,"  he  said.  u  How  did  you  get 
him  to  come  ?  "  He  meant  the  guide. 

Flaming  Lingen  said,  "  I  made  him.  I  was 
desperate.  I've  never  done  such  a  thing  before, 
but  I  laid  hands  on  him." 

"  You  are  a  brick,"  said  James. 

Lingen  said,  "  It's  something  to  know  that  you 
can  throttle  a  man  when  you  want  to  badly 
enough.  I  hadn't  the  slightest  idea.  It's  a  thing 
I  never  did  before.  I  rather  like  it." 


JAMES  AND  JIMMY  291 

Throttled  or  not,  the  guide  saved  the  situation. 
He  saved  it,  undisguisedly,  for  his  own  sake;  for 
he  had  no  zest  for  helping  to  carry  a  bier  over 
the  Folgefond.  They  made  a  litter  of  alpen- 
stocks and  the  mackintosh,  and  so  between  them 
carried  Urquhart  down  the  mountain.  No  need 
to  dwell  on  it.  They  reached  the  hotel  at  Odde 
about  midnight,  but  halfway  to  it  they  found  help. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

URQUHART'S  APOLOGY 

MACARTNEY  was  right  when  he  said  to 
Lucy,  in  talking  over  the  adventure,  that 
Urquhart  had  no  moral  sense,  though 
she  had  not  then  been  convinced.     But  she  was 
to  be  convinced  before  she  had  done  with  him. 

He  asked  for  her  repeatedly,  and  with  no  re- 
gard at  all  to  what  had  happened.  At  last  he 
was  told  that  if  he  excited  himself  she  would  leave 
the  hotel.  Vera  Nugent  told  him  that,  having 
installed  herself  his  nurse.  Vera,  who  knew 
nothing  but  suspected  much,  guessed  that  Macart- 
ney had  had  as  much  of  her  brother  as  he  cared 
about.  As  for  Lucy,  on  the  whole  she  despised 
her  for  preferring  James  with  the  Law  to  Jimmy 
without  it.  In  this  she  did  little  justice  to  James's 
use  of  his  advantage;  but,  as  I  say,  she  didn't 
know  what  had  happened.  All  she  could  see  for 
herself  was  that  where  she  had  once  had  a  faible 
for  Urquhart  she  was  now  ridiculously  in  love 
with  her  husband.  Vera  thought  that  any  woman 

292 


URQUHART'S  APOLOGY         293 

was  ridiculous  who  fell  into  that  position.  She 
was  not  alone  in  the  opinion. 

However,  the  main  thing  was  that  Jimmy 
shouldn't  fret  himself  into  a  fever.  If  he  kept 
quiet,  she  believed  that  he  would  recover.  There 
was  no  dislocation,  the  doctors  told  her,  but  a 
very  bad  wrench.  He  must  be  perfectly  still  — 
and  we  should  see. 

Lucy  was  not  told  how  impatiently  she  was 
awaited.  James,  maybe,  did  not  know  anything 
about  it.  He  felt  great  delicacy  in  telling  what 
he  had  to  tell  her  of  the  events  of  that  day.  But 
she  guessed  nearly  everything,  even  that  Urqu- 
hart  had  intended  to  break  his  own  neck.  "  He 
would,"  she  said,  being  in  a  stare;  "he's  like 
that."  James  agreed,  but  pointed  out  that  it  had 
nearly  involved  his  own  end  likewise.  Lucy 
stared  on,  but  said,  "  That  wouldn't  occur  to  him 
at  the  time."  No,  said  James,  on  the  contrary. 
It  had  occurred  to  him  at  the  time  that  if  he  cut 
the  rope,  he,  James,  would  immediately  turn  for 
home.  She  nodded  her  head  several  times. 
"  He's  like  that."  And  then  she  turned  and  hid 
her  face.  "  It's  all  dreadful,"  she  said;  "  I  don't 
want  to  know  any  more."  It  was  then  that 
James  pronounced  upon  Urquhart's  absence  of 


294  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

morality,  and  found  out  that  she  was  very  much 
interested  in  him  anyhow. 

She  was  curious  about  what  had  passed  between 
him  and  James,  for  she  was  sure  that  there 
had  been  something.  James  admitted  that.  "  It 
was  very  uncomfortable,"  he  said;  "I  cut  him 
as  short  as  I  could  —  but  I  was  awfully  sorry  for 
him.  After  all,  I  had  scored,  you  see." 

She  gave  him  a  long  look.  "  Yes,  you  scored. 
All  ways.  Because,  it  was  only  when  I  was  angry 
with  you  that  I  —  thought  he  might  do."  There 
could  be  no  comment  on  that.  Then  she  said, 
"  I'm  thankful  that  I  told  you  everything  before 
he  did." 

"  So  am  I,  by  Jove,"  said  James.  He  put  his 
arm  round  her.  "  If  you  hadn't,"  he  said,  "  I 
think  I  could  have  let  him  die."  Lucy  shook  her 
head. 

"  No,  you  wouldn't  have  done  that.  He  would 
have  —  but  not  you.  If  you  had  been  capable  of 
that  you  wouldn't  have  called  me  to  come  to  you 
as  you  did  —  that  day."  He  knew  which  day 
she  meant,  and  felt  it  necessary  to  tell  her  some- 
thing about  it. 

"On  that  day,"  he  said,  "though  you  didn't 
know  it,  I  was  awfully  in  love  with  you."  She 


URQUHART'S  APOLOGY         295 

looked  at  him,  wonderfully.  "  No,  I  didn't  know 
that!  What  a  donkey  I  was!  But  I  was 
wretched.  I  simply  longed  for  you." 

"  If  you  hadn't  cried,  you  would  never  have 
had  me."  That  she  understood. 

"  You  wanted  to  pity  me." 

"  No,  I  had  been  afraid  of  you.  Your  tears 
brought  you  down  to  earth." 

"  That's  poetry,"  said  Lucy. 

"  It's  the  nature  of  man,"  he  maintained. 

She  wanted  to  know  if  he  "  minded  "  her  see- 
ing Urquhart.  He  did,  very  much;  but  wouldn't 
say  so. 

"  You  needn't  mind  a  bit,"  she  told  him.  "  He 
has  terrified  me.  I'm  not  adventurous  at  all; 
besides  — " 

11  Besides—  ?" 

"  No,  no,  not  now."  She  would  say  nothing 
more. 

An  expedition  was  made  to  the  foot  of  the 
snow-field  —  for  the  benefit  of  the  boys.  From  a 
distance  they  saw  the  great  cornice,  and  the 
plateau  where  James  had  watched  by  Urquhart. 
Lancelot  was  here  confronted  with  irony  for  the 
first  time.  His  loyalty  was  severely  tried.  By 


296  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

rights  Mr.  Urquhart  ought  to  have  rescued  the 
lot.  Not  for  a  moment  could  he  doubt  of  that. 
As  for  his  father,  accepted  on  all  hands  as  a  hero, 
there  were  difficulties  in  the  way  which  he  could 
not  get  over.  He  had  to  go  very  warily  to  work 
because  of  his  mother;  but  he  went  as  far  as  he 
could.  Why  was  it  that  Mr.  Urquhart  was  hurt 
and  Father  was  not,  when  they  both  had  the  same 
drop?  Lucy  could  only  say  that  Father  dropped 
better  —  or  fell  better.  And  then  there  was  a 
pause.  "What!  With  an  eyeglass!"  He  al- 
lowed himself  that  —  with  her;  but  with  Patrick 
Nugent  he  was  short  and  stern.  Patrick  had  said 
something  of  the  same  kind,  as  they  were  journey- 
ing home  together.  Why  hadn't  Lancelot's  gov- 
ernor smashed  his  eyeglass  when  he  dropped? 
Lancelot  sniffed  offence  immediately,  and  snorted, 
"  Hoo !  Jolly  good  thing  for  him  he  didn't !  It 
kept  the  cold  out  of  his  eye.  It's  like  feeding  a 
mouse  when  you're  a  prisoner  in  dungeons.  Aft- 
erwards it  comes  and  gnaws  the  rope.  Pooh, 
any  ass  could  see  that."  And  so  much  for  Patrick 
and  cheek. 

But  the  sick  man,  fretting  in  his  bed,  took  short 
views.     To  see  Lucy  again  had  become  so  desir- 


URQUHART'S  APOLOGY         297 

able  that  he  could  think  of  nothing  else.  She 
glanced  before  him  as  a  Promise,  and  his  nature 
was  such  that  a  Promise  was  halfway  to  a  ful- 
filling. As  strength  grew,  so  did  he  wax  san- 
guine, and  amused  himself  by  reconstructing  his 
Spanish  castle. 

Vera  Nugent  gave  him  no  encouragement;  and 
perhaps  overdid  it.  "  Hadn't  you  really  better 
let  the  woman  alone?  She's  perfectly  happy  — 
in  spite  of  you."  He  could  afford  to  laugh  at 
this. 

"  She  doesn't  know  what  happiness  is.  She 
thinks  it  is  safety.  I  could  teach  her  better." 

"  You've  made  a  great  mess  of  it  so  far,"  Vera 
said.  He  ignored  that. 

"  You  say  that  she's  happy.  I  suggest  that  she 
is  merely  snug.  That's  what  a  dormouse  calls 
happiness." 

"  Well,  there's  a  good  deal  of  the  dormouse  in 
Lucy,"  Vera  said.  "  If  you  stroke  her  she 
shines." 

"  Silence  !  "  he  cried  sharply  out.  "  You  don't 
know  anything  at  all.  I  have  had  her  radiant  — 
like  a  moonstone.  When  am  I  to  see  her?  " 

"  I'll  tell  her  that  you  want  to  see  her  —  but  it 
would  be  reasonable  if  she  refused." 


298  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

"  She  won't  refuse,"  he  said. 

James  must  be  told,  of  course.  He  took  it 
quietly.  "Yes,  on  the  whole  —  yes.  I  don't 
think  you  can  refuse  him  that.  It  will  try  you." 

"  It  will  be  horrid  —  but  anyhow  you  know 
everything  he  can  say." 

"  He  doesn't  know  that  I  do.  He'll  build  on 
that." 

"  Build!  "  said  Lucy  quickly.  "  What  sort  of 
building?" 

"  Oh,  fantastic  architecture.  Bowers  by  Ben- 
demeer.  Never  mind.  Are  you  going?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Lucy  slowly.  "  Yes,  I'll  go  now." 
She  went  to  him  and  put  her  hands  on  his  shoul- 
ders. Her  eyes  searched  his  face,  and  found  it 
inscrutable.  "  You  mind,"  she  said,  "  I  know 
you  do.  You  ought  not  —  but  I'm  glad  of  it." 

He  humbled  himself  at  once.  They  parted  as 
lovers  part;  but  for  the  life  of  him  he  could  not 
understand  how  she  could  find  the  heart  to  go. 
With  himself,  now,  it  would  have  been  a  point 
of  honour  not  to  go.  He  did  not  see  that  the 
more  a  woman  loves  the  more  love  she  has  to 
spare. 


URQUHART'S  APOLOGY         299 

Vera  Nugent  took  her  into  the  room,  pausing 
outside  the  door.  "  You'll  find  him  very  jumpy," 
she  said;  and  then,  "  My  dear,  you're  so  sensible." 

Lucy,  who  knew  that  she  meant  precisely  the 
opposite,  said,  "  No,  I  don't  think  I  am.  I'm 
excitable  myself.  What  do  you  want  me  to  do?  " 

"  Keep  cool,"  said  Vera.  "  He  won't  like 
it,  but  it's  important."  Then  they  went  in. 
u  Jimmy,  here's  Mrs.  Macartney." 

The  quick  eyes  from  the  bed  had  been  upon 
her  from  the  first.  It  was  immediately  evident 
to  her  that  she  was  not  to  be  spared.  She  heard 
his  "  At  last!  "  and  braced  herself  for  what  that 
might  mean. 

"  I  should  have  come  before  if  the  doctors  had 
approved  —  so  would  James  and  Lancelot,"  she 
said  as  briskly  as  she  might.  He  took  no  notice 
of  her  addition.  Vera  Nugent,  saying,  "  Don't 
let  him  talk  too  much,"  then  left  her  with  him. 

She  began  matter-of-fact  enquiries,  but  he  soon 
showed  her  that  she  had  not  been  brought  in  for 
such  platitude.  He  played  the  mastery  of  the  in- 
valid without  hesitation. 

"  Oh,  I'm  very  sick,  you  know.  They  tell  me 
that  I  shall  be  as  fit  as  ever  I  was,  if  I  behave  — 


300  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

but  really  I  don't  know.  I've  a  good  deal  behind 
me  —  and  not  much  before  —  so  that  I'm  com- 
paratively indifferent  how  the  thing  goes.  .  .  . 
Look  here,  Lucy,"  he  said  suddenly  —  and  she 
stiffened  at  her  name  — "  I  have  to  talk  to  you  at 
last.  It's  wonderful  how  we've  put  it  off  —  but 
here  it  has  come." 

She  said  in  low  tones,  u  I  don't  see  why  we 
should  talk  about  anything.  I  would  much  rather 
not.  Everything  is  changed  now  —  everything." 

Urquhart  began  with  a  touch  of  asperity  ill  dis- 
guised. "  Might  one  be  allowed  to  enquire  . . .  ?  " 
Scared  perhaps  by  his  pomposity,  he  broke  off: 
"  No,  that  won't  do.  I'll  ask  you  simply,  what 
has  happened?  You  liked  me  —  to  say  no  more. 
Now  you  don't.  No,  no,  don't  protest  yet. 
Leave  it  at  that.  Well,  and  then  there's  Macart- 
ney. Macartney  didn't  know  you  existed.  Now 
he  doesn't  see  that  any  one  else  does.  What  has 
happened,  Lucy?" 

She  was  annoyed  at  his  Lucy,  annoyed  that  she 
could  be  annoyed,  annoyed  at  his  question,  and  his 
right  to  ask  it  —  which  she  had  given  him. 
Mostly,  perhaps,  she  was  annoyed  because  her 
answer  must  sound  ridiculous.  Hateful,  that 
such  should  be  the  lot  of  men  and  wives  I  She 


URQUHART'S  APOLOGY          301 

repeated  his  question,  "What  has  happened?  I 
don't  know  how  to  tell  you.  I  found  out,  before 
we  started  —  James  found  out  —  Please  don't 
ask  me  to  talk  about  it.  Believe  me  when  I  say 
that  everything  is  changed.  I  can't  say  more  than 
that." 

He  didn't  move  his  eyes  from  her.  She  knew 
they  were  there  though  she  would  not  face  them. 
"  Everything  isn't  changed.  I'm  not  changed. 
I  don't  know  that  you  are,  although  you  say  so." 
She  faced  him. 

"  Indeed,  I  am.  I  hope  you'll  understand 
that."  He  frowned,  his  fever  flushed  him. 

"  You  can't  be.  We  can  never  be  ordinary 
acquaintance.  I  have  kissed  you  — " 

"You  had  no  right—" 

"  You  have  kissed  me  — " 

"  You  are  cruel  indeed." 

"I  am  not  cruel  —  I  don't  pretend  to  excuse 
myself.  The  first  time  —  it  was  the  act  of  a  cad 
—  but  I  worked  it  all  out.  It  couldn't  fail;  I 
knew  exactly  how  it  would  be.  You  would  of 
course  think  it  was  he.  You  would  be  awfully 
touched,  awfully  pleased  —  set  up.  And  you 
were.  I  saw  that  you  were  when  we  all  came 
into  the  room.  You  went  over  and  stood  by  him. 


302  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

You  put  your  hand  on  his  arm.  I  said,  '  You 
divine,  beautiful,  tender  thing,  now  I'll  go  through 
the  fire  to  get  you.  .  .  .' ' 

Lucy  had  covered  her  face  with  her  hands ;  but 
now  she  lifted  it  and  showed  him  as  it  might  be 
the  eyes  of  an  Assessing  Angel. 

"  You  went  through  no  fire  at  all.  But  you 
put  me  in  the  fire."  But  he  continued  as  if  she 
had  said  nothing  material. 

"  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  be  satisfied.  I 
thought  if  I  could  see  you  exalted,  proud  of  what 
you  had,  that  would  be  enough.  But  you  found 
him  out;  and  then  you  found  me  out  too  .  .  . 
and  we  never  spoke  of  it.  But  there  it  was, 
Lucy,  all  the  time ;  and  there  it  is  still,  my  dear  — " 

Her  face  was  aflame,  but  her  eyes  clear  and 
cold.  "  No,"  she  said,  "  it's  not  there.  There 
is  nothing  there  at  all.  You  are  nothing  to  me 
but  a  thought  of  shame.  I  think  I  deserve  all 
that  you  can  say  —  but  surely  you  have  said 
enough  to  me  now.  I  must  leave  you  if  you  go 
on  with  this  conversation.  Nothing  whatever  is 
there—" 

He  laughed,  not  harshly,  but  comfortably,  as  a 
man  does  who  is  sure  of  himself.  "  Yes,  there  is 


URQUHART'S  APOLOGY          303 

something  there  still.  I  count  on  that.  There 
is  a  common  knowledge,  unshared  by  any  one  but 
you  and  me.  He  would  have  it  so.  I  was  ready 
to  tell  him  everything,  but  he  wouldn't  hear  me. 
It  was  honourable  of  him.  I  admired  him  for 
it;  but  it  left  me  sharing  something  with  you." 

She  stared  at  him,  as  if  he  had  insulted  her  irv 
the  street. 

"What  can  you  mean?  How  could  he  want 
to  hear  from  you  what  he  knew  already  from 
me?" 

Urquhart  went  pale.  Grey  patches  showed  on 
his  cheeks  and  spread  like  dry  places  in  the  sand. 

"You  told  him?" 

"  Everything.     Two  nights  before  you  went." 

He  fell  silent.  His  eyes  left  her  face.  Power 
seemed  to  leave  him. 

"That  tears  it,"  he  said.  "That  does  for 
me."  He  was  so  utterly  disconcerted  that  she 
could  have  pitied  him. 

"  So  that's  why  he  didn't  want  to  hear  me  I  No 
wonder.  But  —  why  didn't  he  tell  me  that  he 
knew  it?  I  taunted  him  with  not  knowing."  He 
turned  towards  her;  his  eyes  were  bright  with 
fever.  "  If  you  know,  perhaps  you'll  tell  me." 


3o4  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

Lucy  said  proudly,  "  I  believe  I  know.  He 
didn't  want  to  change  your  thoughts  of  me."  He 
received  that  in  silence. 

Then  he  said,  "  By  George,  he's  a  better  man 
than  I  am." 

Lucy  said,  "  Yes,  he  is."  Her  head  was  very 
fixed,  her  neck  very  stiff.  She  was  really  angry, 
and  Urquhart  had  sense  enough  to  see  it.  She 
got  up  to  leave  him,  really  angry,  but  unwilling  to 
appear  so.  "  You  must  forget  all  this,"  she  said, 
"  and  get  well.  Then  you  will  do  wonderful 
things." 

He  said,  "  I've  been  a  blackguard;  but  I  meant 
something  better." 

"  Oh,  I  am  sure  you  did,"  she  said  warmly. 

11 1  won't  see  Macartney,  if  he  doesn't  mind. 
Tell  him  from  me  that  he's  a  better  man  than  I 
am." 

"  He  won't  believe  you,"  said  Lucy. 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  will,"  Urquhart  held.  "  Good- 
bye. Love  to  Lancelot." 

That  melted  her.  "  Don't  give  us  up.  We 
are  all  your  friends  now." 

He  wouldn't  have  it.  "  No.  I  am  a  neck-or- 
nothing  man.  It  can't  be.  There's  no  cake  in 
the  cupboard.  I've  eaten  it.  Send  Vera  in  if 


URQUHART'S  APOLOGY         305 
you  see  her  about.     Good-bye."     She  left  him. 

She  went  through  the  hall,  with  a  word  to 
Vera,  who  was  writing  letters  there.  "  He  asked 
for  you." 

Vera  looked  up  at  her.  "  He's  excited,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

"  No,  not  now,"  said  Lucy.  Then  she  went 
into  the  sitting-room  and  saw  the  party  at  tea  on 
the  balcony.  James  paused  in  his  careful  occu- 
pations, and  focussed  her  with  his  eyeglass.  She 
went  quickly  to  the  table. 

"  Oh,  let  me  do  it,  let  me."  And  then  she 
sighed  deeply. 

"  Hulloa,"  said  James,  knowing  very  well. 
"  What's  up?" 

She  poured  the  tea.  "  Only  that  I'm  glad  to 
be  here." 

Glances  were  exchanged,  quick  but  reassuring. 

Lancelot  said,  "  There's  a  ripping  cake.  Mr. 
Urquhart  would  like  some,  I  bet  you." 

Lucy  said,  "  He  can't  have  any  cake  just  yet." 
Upon  which  remark  she  avoided  James's  eye,  and 
eyeglass,  with  great  care.  But  on  a  swift  after- 
thought she  stooped  and  kissed  Lancelot. 


EPILOGUE 

REALLY,  the  only  fact  I  feel  called  upon 
to  add  is  the  following  announcement, 
culled  from  a  fashionable  newspaper. 

"  On    the    3rd    June,"    we    read,    "  at 

Onslow  Square,  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  James  Adol- 
phus  Macartney,  a  daughter." 

That  ought  to  do  instead  of  the  wedding  bells 
once  demanded  by  the  average  reader.  Let  it 
then  stand  for  the  point  of  my  pair's  pilgrimage. 

I  promised  a  romantic  James  and  have  given 
you  a  sentimental  one.  It  is  a  most  unfortunate 
thing  that  it  should  be  thought  ridiculous  for  a 
man  to  fall  in  love  with  his  wife,  for  his  wife  to 
fall  in  love  with  him;  and  we  have  to  thank,  I 
believe,  the  high  romanticks  for  it.  They  must 
have  devilry,  it  seems,  dV  cayenne  pepper.  But 
I  say,  Scorn  not  the  sentimental,  though  it  be 
barley-sugar  to  ambrosia,  a  canary's  flight  to  a 
skylark's.  Scorn  it  not;  it's  the  romantic  of  the 
unimaginative;  and  if  it  won't  serve  for  a  magic 
carpet,  it  makes  a  useful  anti-macassar. 

306 


EPILOGUE  307 

The  Macartneys  saw  no  more  of  Urquhart, 
who,  however,  recovered  the  use  of  his  backbone, 
and  with  it  his  zest  for  the  upper  air.  He  sent 
Lucy  some  flowers  after  the  event  of  June,  and 
later  on,  at  the  end  of  July,  a  letter,  which  I  re- 
produce. 

"  Quid  pluraf  I  had  news  of  you  and  greeted 
it,  and  am  gone.  I  have  hired  myself  to  the 
Greeks  for  the  air.  I  take  two  machines  of  my 
own,  and  an  m.  b.  If  you  can  forgive  me  when 
I  have  worked  out  my  right  we  shall  meet  again. 
If  you,  I  shall  know,  and  keep  off.  Good-bye, 
Lucy. 

"  J.  U. 

"  The  one  thing  I  can't  forgive  myself  was  the 
first,  a  wild  impulse,  but  a  cad's.  All  the  rest 
was  inevitable.  Good-bye." 

She  asked  Lancelot  what  Quid  plura  meant. 
He  snorted.  "  Hoo !  .Stale !  It  means,  what 
are  you  crying  about?  naturally.  Who  said  it? 
That  letter?  Who's  it  from?  Mr.  Urquhart,  I 
suppose?  " 

"  Yes,  it's  from  Mr.  Urquhart,  to  say  Good- 
bye. He's  going  to  Greece,  to  fly  for  the  navy." 


3o8  LOVE  AND  LUCY 

"  Oh.     Rather  sport.     Has  he  gone?  " 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  think  so." 

"You'll  write  to  him,  I  suppose?" 

"  I  might." 

"  I  shall  too,  then.     Rather.     I  should  think 


so." 


THE    END 


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